Madacran
by Elanthra
Summary: Sheppard and McKay find themselves on opposing sides of a slave revolt. 'Has life no value to you unless it is sacrificed ? ' Shep Whump. WARNING! M Rated for violence, nudity and bad language.
1. Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies for any confusion over the triple posting of Chapter One of Madacran, but I can't seem to get it to appear on the front page somehow. Perhaps third time lucky?

PLEASE NOTE: AUTHOR'S WARNING It's always my aim to try and be original with my stories, and in so doing, with Madacran, I pushed out the boundaries a little: there is an element of non-con fic here that may offend. It's my plot bunny and my bad guy that are naughty, not me! There are references too, to homosexuality (only a little and not Shep's! And no slash.) and nekkidness (mostly Shep's!) And much swearing of one character.

However, my beta, Sterenyk Strey, says that this is 'an interesting tale'. So, please read, and let me know what you think.

Future stories I have planned will be more 'normal'!

Further Author Notes: And many thanks to Strey for her time and assistance on this. It is to her merit that she persevered with me and my ellipses for so long! Even if she did fail in her attempts to persuade me to eradicate them and other grammatical errors entirely...

This story is complete at just under 89,000 words and I plan to carry on posting at regular intervals if anyone is still interested in reading.

PS. Jan. 24th: Oh, and I forgot to say, this probably takes place somewhere in Season 5 or after. There are references to the episode 'Travellers,' Season 4, but nothing to give the story details of that ep away. Oh, and Epiphany, Season 2, is also mentioned.

* * *

Madacran

Chapter One - Prologue

He was a dot in the desert.

Somehow, probably during that late night drunken trade in a bar in a back street of Razachan when Olfas, its owner, (though the rate he was going he was never going to be owner for much longer), who couldn't tell left from right, up from down, (though probably could tell down because he was down on the floor most of the time, sick as a taros bird, and was getting a real good look at the underside of one of his filthy tables, that's if he could focus, but he had the chance, to focus, that is, and it would have been a good idea to focus because if he didn't soon, he was going to end up in his own vomit), was persuaded to exchange the object for a glass eye, because he said he might need one, one day, eventually, (probably to help focus when he next drank his own bar's entire stock of ivis liquor) and so, because the deal was so ludicrous, and because Seldric had sorta felt sorry for him and had thrown in the wooden leg too for good measure, they had acquired... a Life Signs Detector.

_And _(and this was the good part) it had once belonged to a Traveller (no questions asked, but there's a whole load of new graves at Seismo,) who'd fixed it with a brand new interface so they didn't need the goddamned ATA gene to work it.

Seldric was the proverbial trowsy cow let loose in the proverbial haystack.

"You know, with this, With This, _with this, _I could find out if my wife is cheating on me."

Well, he did find out.

One big fat dot one night. And she was. Cheating on him. With that Pickieton, or some name like that. Though they could never fathom out why she'd fancied him. He just wasn't a nice guy. And he had a sort of a squint too. Clada said he didn't mind him, but then Clada liked all the dark haired guys and thought it a sorta shame when Seldric shot the pair through the head while they slept in Seldric's_ own_bed, so yeah, perhaps Seldric was right to be kinda pissed about that? Though he complained all week about having to do his own laundry and how difficult it was to get blood stains out and how it'd rained and how he could get nothing dry. Toplon said he should've just thrown the sheets out, but hey, these weren't just crap cloth from the Madacran market, these were_ Socan _silk, in a deep purple too, and didn't Toplon know how difficult it was to get stuff like that? And Seldric was keen to hold onto them now, because, hey, the fairer sex just loved Socan silk. In fact, sex just loved Socan silk.

Anyway.

The dot on the LSD became a cross in the desert.

Someone had staked the guy out in the blazing sun.

Not the nicest of things to do to someone. Seldric said even _he_wouldn't do that as he shot two of the secrid birds that had flocked round to feed on the poor bugger. Oh yeah. No kidding said Horrie as Horrie shot another three. Horrie had been with Seldric the longest and knew everything there was to know about Seldric. No. It wasn't a myth that Seldric had killed forty nine men. But Horrie had sorta lost count. It was probably a lot more…

Toplon, always a good shot, took off another six of the birds. Clada, who never was, just took a chunk out of the guy's boots.

"Damn you, Clada! I needed those! Damn! Can you not be more careful! You'll take off your very own head one day!" And Clada knew he was in Toplon's bad books because Toplon never usually said more than six words in a day, and they were always sorta high brow and in a best-academy voice.

Toplon walked forward as the last of the birds flapped away, crawing in protest, and he roughly pulled the boots off the man's feet, paying little attention to the groans coming from said man, and ruefully fingered the gaping hole. But they were still better than his own which were two sizes too big anyhow and hey, how about that, the guy had those stocking things too? So he slumped down onto the dust, to don his new foot gear, throwing his own into the near-by scrub.

It was then that he noticed the grave.

The secrids had already been there disturbing the rocks piled up, and had pecked at what appeared to be a human hand. The blue bugs were finishing it off thank you very much thank you. And probably the rest of the corpse too judging from the numbers crawling through the crevices in the stones.

"The secrids obviously prefer fresh meat," said Horrie, who'd also come over to look, seeing that the birds had gone for the stranger. He'd spoken with a sniff, sniffing because it was kinda sad and sniffing because of the goddamned awful smell.

"Was a woman," said Toplon simply, gazing down mournfully at a mangled upper limb now exposed.

"It was, was it?" Toplon knew stuff like that because Toplon had been a doctor once but had done something bad, so very bad but no one had ever dared ask him what exactly. It was why he said so little. Well, they guessed that was why, because no one really knew for sure, or even if it were true that he'd done something so very bad, but they all had, hadn't they? That's why they were a team.

Seldric called because he needed help to strip out the abandoned space craft. Horrie and Toplon ignored him.

"There were two others. They went that way." Toplon pointed to the east, but whoever 'they' were, were long gone because they would've picked them up on the 'Tector otherwise.

"Then they took stuff with them?"asked Horrie, wondering if they should give chase.

"Doubt it. On foot. Would've just been food and water and guns and a blanket." If they'd had any sense. But it'd been the guns that Horrie was concerned about.

Seldric used some sentences then, that scarcely had one good word in them so they thought they'd better go and help.

Because Clada wasn't.

"I wish you'd keep your sexual proclivities to the confines of your quarters," Toplon murmured as he stooped down to take a blood sample from the stranger's one good unfed-upon arm.

"My sex wha?" asked Clada with his hands down the poor wretch's leggings. "Why is he moving like that?" Shuddering. Nearly like a convulsion. "He's not having an or-"

"Lack of salt," cut in Toplon, quickly and matter-of-factly. He always carried salt pills with him whenever they ventured out into the desert. And fully intended to give the stranger some later if it was worth their while. "Muscle cramps," he added. "He really is in excruciating pain." And Clada found that more of a turn on than ever…

"Clada! Clada, you're fucking disgusting! Leave him alone!" yelled Seldric from the large, open, back door thing of the space craft, as he started throwing out stuff to be loaded on to the four trowsy beasts they'd brought with them. Clada had lifted the stranger's shirt now, rubbing a hand like the lecher he was, across the guy's stomach, eyes lusting on the moment, before moving on...

And then Seldric started fouling off at Horrie too, who was gathering the remains of some of the more intact secrid birds and shoving them into a couple of sacks.

"Have you ever fucking eaten fucking secrid?!! They're fucking so tough they'll take your fucking teeth out! And we haven't the fucking room anyway!"

"Better than salted trowsy," muttered Horrie, remembering they'd lived on nothing else for the past six months. "Anyway, the feathers make a good price at Madacran."

But Seldric wasn't listening. He'd turned on Clada again.

"Clada! Just fucking stop that! We're not taking him either!"

"But if he works all right, you know Slaver Smo will take him. And he's pretty." He had dark hair. And a guy tied up by the ankles and wrists was a sort of a turn on too, well, _he_thought so when Paltron did it to him…

Horrie snorted in derision. "Half his face is a mess! How can you tell?"

"He's fucking damaged, Clada! Just like your fucking brain! How you ever gonna get him to '_work_' when he's in that state?! For Godsake, just slit his throat and put him out his misery!"

"I need the leggings off anyway, before all the blood gets on them. I've always liked black," sulked Clada, from his place astride the man's hips.

"And you, Toplon, you quit that too, I repeat, we're not taking him!" He'd seen Toplon studying his blood sampler, waiting for the results to come through on its screen.

"Seldric, you know it makes sense." And Toplon shrugged. "You're dealing in spare parts. As do I. You know what a premium organs on Dolcros make if you can find blood group D. We need only keep him alive as far as Madacran. Until this happened, he seems to have been a very healthy specimen. I imagine his kidneys might be a bit iffy at the moment though…"

The staked out guy groaned at this, or maybe at Clada...

Seldric threw up his arms in despair, cursed loudly and disappeared inside the ship, banging as he continued the search for more salvage.

But yeah, they'd hit good here. Though he hadn't a clue what half the stuff was for. He'd gotten his lever out and he was pulling at a metallic panel marked with some indecipherable script that included some letter that looked like a triangle. But he'd never been schooled - it might as well have been trowsy talk for all he knew. And he hadn't even gotten to the front, yet, where there were loads of dials and screens and things. Even four comfy chairs. They were going to have to do two trips. In this fucking heat? But it'd be worth it. The sackful of crystals alone… well, they wouldn't have to eat fucking secrid, would they? Selemon's agent always paid good money for this tech kit.

When he came back out with his arms full, Clada had managed to unfasten both the stranger's and his own leggings and Seldric caught a glimpse, in all Clada's thrusting, of the stranger's pelvis. And yeah, it was good if you were in to all that like Clada was...

"Clada! I swear I'm soon gonna fucking stake you out alongside him-"

Then the guy bit Clada. And Clada leapt up, yelping, sucking at a finger on one hand and trying to pull his leggings up with the other. When he had, he kicked the guy. Hard. In the ribs.

"You shit-turd! To think we saved your ass!" And hard again. In the ribs. So hard, that even the nearby shaggy trowsy beasts flinched from grazing on shrub and moved their stinking hides away.

And all the guy could do was sort of whimper in the back of his throat. Because his lips were so dry and cracked and swollen. How the hell had he actually managed to _bite_Clada? So now the guy's lips were bleeding too. Along with his right arm, half his chest and half his face. The secrids had been going for his eyes. They did that. Always went for your eyes first. Must be a kinda delicacy for them.

"Serve you fucking right! And if the secrids are carrying disease, you've got it too!"

And Horrie looked down doubtfully at his two sacks full of the birds, and promptly tipped them out.

"Now perhaps someone will help me out in here! We've got to be making tracks before that sun gets full up."

It was already like an oven inside the little space craft. Hot. Hot and airless. But a good likeness. Oven. With its strange lift up back door. And it was stubby and squarish, like an oven. Nothing like the Travellers' ships they'd seen before. And this had gotten guys through space? Perhaps it wasn't so good. Perhaps that's why it'd ended up here in the desert. Broken down.

"Actually, Seldric," spoke up Toplon, leaning at the craft's entrance, real casual like... like he was never going to fucking help, "have you not thought that this vessel is in remarkably good condition considering it has crashed in the desert?"

Yeah. He had. "Well, that means, _don't it,_ we get more things to salvage and ain't gotta scrape fucking bits of Traveller off everything, _don't it?_" Sometimes you just have to explain fucking everything, even to Toplon.

"It also suggests it may still be viable and... correspondingly more valuable... "

"And how are we ever going to fucking fix it?"

"Well, our recent acquaintance may also still be... viable..." and he looked back to the staked out guy.

"I said we're not fucking taking him! That's final!"

"Oh, but I suggest you reconsider that decision, Seldric, that and the stripping out of the ship. For the two are most definitely connected, as it would appear that our friend here, is in possession of… the ATA gene."

-oAo-

Docky's mistress's husband was a Senator, an occupation only attainable through bribery and corruption. This was a fact. Pure and simple. And bribery and corruption required money. A second immutable fact. So it followed that Dochelimar Selemon the VIth, having none of the fortune required but all of the aspirations, had been compelled to marry for money.

Of course, Meria, hadn't married him for love either. Status and breeding had been her connubial prerequisites, and you didn't get to be called Dochelimar Selemon VI for nothing. As well as the long line of Dochelimar Selemons, Selemon could further trace his descent from an equally long line of reputable and honourable Dochelimar Tiarder's, right up to the XIIth. Though one had regrettably disgraced himself and had became a monk. Who thought, that if you sat out in the desert and prayed long enough, the Wraith wouldn't descend upon you and take your life force. And who was buried where he had died as a shrivelled husk. It would have been far more sensible to take to the caves of the northern hills as was the usual custom of Madacran City.

No. His family were pure stock Madacrans. And often that fact could be worth more than money.

Not that his family had been entirely bereft of funds. There _was_half an estate lying to the north of Madacran that grew ivis in abundance on its rich sunny aspect slopes. But it was never enough. Bribery aside, there were other costly expenditures that faced Senators with ambition. Entertainment on grand lavish scales in a elegant house on the _right_street of Madacran, Lokom Street to be precise, were essential requirements to climbing the political ladder. To rub shoulders with the right people. To be _seen_ to rub shoulders with the right people.

It was all so costly. The banquets with connoisseur vintage ivis and food prepared by the foremost chef of Madacran. All the more impressive if you actually _owned_him as did Selemon. The expensive blends of narcotics... hiotus, mynia, moton... and cer moton (if it could be had) to be inhaled or imbibed. The live 'shows', the more depraved the better, the more extravagant of slave lives the better. And they dared call themselves nobility? Once he had even created an actual dungeon with all the trimmings, though on reflection, it hadn't been that difficult... but he rather rued the day as he had lost his favourite slave, Rammian, to a bad case of flagellation. Rammian would do anything to please his master, but... he was expendable, and an agreeable exchange for an influential vote in the Senate.

But it had not always been so with Dochelimar Selemon VI. It was a case of if you can't beat them, join them. As a student, he'd been something of a radical. Something of an anarchist even. Certainly an idealist. He so wanted to change the system. To put right all the wrongs. To change the whole wide universe. He'd been on all the demos. Had been arrested on numerous occasions. Once for letting off gas bombs in the foyer of Government House. In fact, his father had despaired of him to such a degree that he had signed him up as a junior officer on the next Travellers' ship out of Madacran, to learn the ways of the universe. Though that action might have also been attributable to the deaths of his mother and brother. And it was also probable that Selemon senior hoped never to see him again.

But what were the _ways_of the universe that he had learned? His interlude from Madacran had simply reinforced his view that change is only effected by power and force, and that the strength of that power is intensified if it lies in the hands of one individual person. Say, for example, Dochelimar Selemon VI. And not was diluted across the many minds that, say, make up a Senate. And that the strength of that force is determined by correct timing. You had only to see the Travellers laying in wait for an unsuspecting Wraith ship to realise that. So... he was biding his time, and that time might be about now, with the appearance of Docky.

Docky was returning from an errand to the Madacran market. Judging from the scent of him, for Meria's favourite bars of swuido soap. The market was generally considered cheap and nasty, partly because its principle trade was in flesh, after all, but here and there were artisan's stalls of quite remarkable quality that the ladies of Lokom Street were partial to frequenting, especially if they were passing by with a freshly acquired slave or two.

Docky was crossing the courtyard from the main front gate of the Selemon villa to Meria's quarters. Selemon called him over. He winced at being forced to use the name Docky. It had once been his own term of endearment in the early days of his marriage to Meria when he'd been permitted a few jabs at procreation in order, unsuccessfully, to produce an heir. And tiresomely, Meria had demonstrated her lack of intellect once more. When the slave had first reeled off what seemed like half a dozen different names, she had immediately assumed the first to _be_a name and not his title or his office and had instantly turned Doctor into the pet form, Docky. Selemon imagined that Meria also thought Peeaitchdee was actually his last name.

As the slave approached, Selemon wondered why Meria found herself so particularly attracted to him. He wasn't exactly an Adonis. Too pale for Selemon's liking. Some red blotches where he'd spent rather too long out in the sun lately. A hairline that threatened to recede. And he was rather flabby round the shoulders, chest and paunch. Though good strong legs revealed themselves below the short tunic tied off at the waist. Perhaps with the advancement of middle age, Meria, no longer wished to surround herself with younger men who would only remind her of her lost youth. Perhaps she like his alien novelty. Blue eyes, the colour of a non-Madacran. Perhaps he was just good with his hands…

"Docky…"

"Hmmm?" Well, some manners wouldn't go amiss. Selemon knew that he was well down the pecking order of things as regards anything to do with his wife, but his wife's current favourite really should learn to say, 'Yes, master,' like all the others.

"Docky… my wife…"

"Meria?"

"Yes. You know, one day she will tire of you."

"Oh." And Docky seemed suddenly downhearted at this news. (_The fellow was actually in love?)_ Though this was replaced immediately with defiance. Jutting out his chin.

"You're only saying that because you're jealous!"

Selemon was a little taken aback. Him jealous of this slave? Goodness, he was more than used to his wife's long list of boyfriends, lovers, paramours. And it _was_ a long list. She'd slept with half the Senate for heaven's sake. And sometimes because he'd asked her to.

"No. No. No. It is nothing like that. I only wished to warn you. Truly. When she tires of you, it will be back to the Madacran market for you."

"It will?" Docky didn't seem to like the sound of that.

Selemon nodded gravely. "I have no say. She is your lawful mistress, not I. But I have seen how able you are in matters of figure work." As well as bed duties, the slave was sorting out Meria's complicated accounts of the heruska oil company, inherited from her father, and Selemon knew what Peeaitchdee really stood for, and he had a vague recollection of a certain scientist who'd blown up an entire planet. He had seen that from the bridge of a Travellers' ship. "I would like to take you to into my own personal household but lack of funds…" And he shrugged.

Docky's slow nod demonstrated that he understood completely.

"If you could persuade Meria, while you were still in her good books, so to speak, to turn you over to me, it would be much appreciated."

The slave was nodding again. In agreement.

Of course, Selemon had funds for this one slave. And his wife's property was his own. But manipulation was far more satisfying. And this slave would feel eternally grateful for the warning. And the timing was perfect now for Docky to be working for Selemon... for Selemon had, shall he say... a 'show' to create? To impress the universe...

-oAo-

Private Dominic Kelsoe had been fed upon by the Wraith. A partial feeding. Major (his rank at the time) Sheppard had saved him. Sometimes he wished that the Major had shot him dead instead. Like he'd shot Colonel Sumner once.

It had aged Kelsoe fifteen years. He'd been twenty at the time. (The youngest marine on Atlantis ever.) So he was middle aged to look at. Though his internal organs had aged much more. They doubted he'd ever see thirty five.

So it was an honourable discharge.

It sure felt like a discharge. It never felt very honourable. Honourable was when they pinned medals to your chest. There was none of that. And if he'd left then, he doubted if anyone would have noticed he'd even gone. So much for honour.

He couldn't bear the thought of returning home. There wasn't much, or anyone to return home to. That's why he'd joined up in the first place. But since he'd spent his youth earning dollars as cleaner in a shopping mall, they allowed him to stay on, working as utility staff. It saved them a lot of work and there was a vacancy anyhow. Checking out security for new personnel was something of a nightmare in paperclips, etc, etc.

And it was while working, cleaning in the kitchens that he met Rosie Murphy, chef.

"That sounds Irish?"

"Yeah, but I'm Puerto Rican extract. Don't I just hate it when they say extract? It makes you sound like-"

"Meat flavouring?"

"Yeah!"

"So, how come the name?"

"Don't ask!" Though he did. And loads of other questions too. Because he liked her. And she liked him in return. And they were soon an item. And she laughed and said she didn't mind older men. And it was never pity talking.

But life sucks.

She became ill. And the bloods showed leukaemia. And Dom had had a cousin with that. And he hadn't lived long. So they sat on an Lantean balcony one night and cried and talked over the future (which didn't take very long and was nearly all medical stuff) and cried some more. Talked again and looked at the night sky.

"So you have a list?" he asked her.

"A list?"

"Yeah, you know… a thousand things to do before I die." Because he was damn well sure he was gonna make every dream come true for her.

And when asked, you can never think of anything. Of course, top of the list was to marry Dom. No question about that. And then there were so many places that she'd heard of but had never seen and would like to visit. All the usual. Back on Earth. Grand Canyon. Hawaii. Paris. London. The Taj Mahal. And then… and then there were the stars… She'd spent two years in a mess hall listening to all the stories. She longed (and she guessed that's why she'd come to Atlantis in the first place) to just… get out there… space…

-oAo-

"Here let me do it!" insisted Seldric, snatching hold of the skin water bottle.

But it didn't seem to matter who tried it, attempting to get water down the man's swollen throat was damned impossible. Like a large funnel with a narrow hole. Half ended up in the sand. But the man, for his part, was really trying his hardest to desperately gulp the stuff down. Good on him!

"Actually, it would be as well to simply pour it over his head. He needs to be cooled down," instructed Toplon. They'd already untied the poor bastard and pulled him over to the meagre shade of the space craft. And Clada was madly fanning him with a smallish sheet of metal thrown out of the ship.

"But we'll never get back. We need the water for the trowsies," complained Horrie, who couldn't see what all the fuss was about. So what if the stranger had an ATA gene? It sounded like some sort of secrid disease to him.

"You think he's the pilot?" Seldric asked.

Toplon shrugged. "There is the possibility. Or he might be able to get the craft going again. Or it might not even be broken. He might have just been attacked." Though whoever had attacked him, had to have been fellow travellers. There was only the one set of tracks going out. None coming in.

Toplon was trying to force a couple of salt pills into the man's mouth with little success. The stranger was madly objecting, craving only for the water. Toplon then noticed the chain round the man's neck and lifted up the thin medallions that hung there.

"It's his name?" offered Clada, who could read a few words, having been taught mainly by Slaver Smo, who'd ran the brothel where he'd grown up. A lot of strangers passed through that place too. So he'd picked up more.

"What is it then?" asked Seldric.

But Clada, however hard he squinted, couldn't make the silver lettering out.

"He would not be able to recognise it," spoke up Toplon, considering. "It is a script that I have encountered only once before whilst scanning through Traveller data files. They were corrupted but I was able to ascertain that whereas it is not a form of Ancient, there was still a connection with the long lost city of Atlantis."

"Fucking hell..." breathed out Seldric.

"I could try perhaps something of a phonetic rendering of the lettering, though I would be loath to guarantee its accuracy."

"Ph... Ph... would be good, " invited Seldric, nodding.

And Toplon took a deep breath. "Jo…Her... Ner... One word. Joherner. Pee. One word."

"Pee?" queried Seldric, pulling a face.

"Yes. Pee."

"You sure those are his names? Could be his fucking history of toilet training for all we know," doubted Seldric.

But Toplon continued sounding out the syllables carefully. "Sh…Ep…Pard…One word. Sheppard. Ler…Ter… One word. Lerter. Col. One word. There. Joherner Pee Sheppard Lerter Col," he announced on reaching the end. Five names. They were all suitably impressed. They had, after all, only four names between them all.

"Joherner? Sounds like a girl's name. We'll call him Jo," announced Seldric. Though Clada couldn't see what was wrong with having a name that sounded girlie.

And Jo promptly showed his approval of his pet name by choking on a salt pill and by going rigid with the muscle cramp out of hell.

-oAo-


	2. Chapter 2

Madacran 

Chapter Two

"You know, I'm convinced that whoever thought up 'in the nick of time', 'by the skin of your teeth', 'a wing and a prayer' must have known you. You lead a charmed life... must be the elf ea-"

Sheppard, sitting on the gurney, shot out an arm and went to smack up the back of Rodney's head. Rodney did a neat evasive duck. Well, for him. Letting out a yell as the blow hit home harder than Sheppard had meant, knocking into Carson's best stitch sewing hand. Carson dropped the needle and swore.

"Bloody hell, you two!"

They both threw him repentant looks. He'd have to get out a fresh one before finishing stitching up the gash on Sheppard's back. Sheppard heard him sigh as he ripped into a second sterile pack.

"He's a jammy bugger, for sure," observed Carson, shaking his head.

"It's the way the dice lands. He's good at throwing sixes," put in Ronon.

"And that's my point entirely," said Rodney, rubbing his neck ruefully at a safe distance.

"So, I'm good to have around," said Sheppard smugly, though his grin was more to hide the grimace. The local wasn't quite cutting it at hiding the throb at his ribs. "I mean, c'mon guys, there had to be some skill in this. I knew exactly when to jump clear, reflexes and all that. " And Rodney rolled his eyes. "It's not _all_ down to luck."

"No, it's definitely luck, son," Carson corrected, "I've never met anyone quite so capable of getting into quite so many scrapes and coming out virtually all in one piece."

Thank you! Mouthed Rodney, silently looking heavenwards.

"One of these days, you're going to start throwing that dice and coming up with an ace like the rest of us mere mortals, and today you came too close for comfort," warned Carson, throwing a glance down to Sheppard's abandoned shirt and Tac vest on the sheet, each messed up by a six inch black scorched hole.

"The evil eye," agreed Ronon with a solemn nod. "It was spoken of on Sateda."

"Thanks," said Sheppard sourly, and Ronon broke out in a broad beaming smile to show he was just kidding.

"We are, all of us, in the hands of the Ancients. If they ordain it so, then... it is so..." said Teyla.

"Ancients!" Rodney snorted loudly, sending spit in Sheppard's general direction, that Sheppard brushed off in disgust.

"Creators or whatever is your inclination." Teyla was standing her ground.

"Or whatever is your poison! And what of free will?" Rodney's voice was getting close to shrieking-point.

"Precisely," put in Sheppard quickly. He could win this one yet. Rodney looked at him blankly, the cogs whirring away in that brain of his, realising he might have gone and outright contradicted himself.

"I dunno but I think this is getting too deep for me," said Carson finishing off, applying a dressing. "Hop along now, Colonel. You know the routine. No regular duties for two to three days, plenty of rest, daily check-ups - and why do I feel like I'm wasting my breath?" John had launched himself off the gurney as if in A1 health. Teyla passed him over a clean shirt. Well, at least he winced, easing it, very, very carefully over his shoulder. That ought to keep the good doctor happy.

"Mr. Woolsey is expecting you and Ronon in his office for debriefing," explained Teyla.

"I bet he is," muttered Sheppard as they all made for the door. Woolsey had proved to be as good a commander as either Elizabeth or Sam, but he was still a stickler for dotting 'i's and crossing 't's to a point of... well, it was boring. Rodney and Teyla must have already explained everything. Sheppard conceded though, that if he were the one in that office right now, he'd sure want to know the opinion of his military commander. And his opinion? He was angry. Someone had just shot at his team with something resembling a bazooka for crying out loud.

"Perhaps it's only to explain why Lorne's tally of tac vests is already three short this month and it's down to yours truly, hmmm?" said Rodney, pointing at Sheppard. And Rodney left them with that.

There was already someone with Woolsey when Sheppard and Ronon arrived at the glass door. Ronon raised an eyebrow. Loud voices meant that either Woolsey was giving the guy a dressing down, or the guy was giving Woolsey a hard time. It felt like the latter. They waited outside, trying their damn hardest to be discreet and... not to grin. Ronon failed and coughed into a hand just as the guy stormed out. And that grin still twitched at his mouth. It was always like this when something or somebody upset Woolsey. Of course, it was always funnier if one of them had caused it, but this would do nicely.

Woolsey wound a finger round the neck of his uniform. A habit left over from his suit, tie and white shirt days. His uniform just wasn't that tight. It must have just felt like it when he... got all mixed up over stuff. He'd stretch his neck out. Like a chicken. And that would nearly make them burst out in hysterics. Because… once Jenny had… and the memory of that alone was sorta like contagious.

"Yes… well… when you two gentlemen have quite finished, perhaps we can get on?" And Sheppard felt surprised. He thought he'd managed to dump the smirk and do poker-face pretty well.

TW2 D13. They had been ambushed, most likely by the Genii or their agents. They had no idea where the guns had come from. Course of action could only be to wait and see what panned out. Keep their ears to the ground. Maintain contact with friendlies. And all those clichés. Sheppard was glad when it was over. The local was wearing off and he had to sit upright in his chair to avoid aggravating his back.

Sheppard and Ronon got up to leave, but Woolsey beckoned Sheppard to sit down again.

Woolsley was going to reprimand him for grinning?

Woolsley cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I know you should be resting. That man, who was in here before you… Dominic Kelsoe?"

Woolsey obviously thought that the name should mean something to him. Sheppard puzzled and shook his head. Even the face had only been vaguely familiar. So many guys had come and gone on Atlantis, it was often impossible to keep track.

"According to his files, you saved his life?" Sheppard shrugged. Yeah, well, he'd done that enough times too, and too many times to keep count.

"I'm going to have to ship him back to Earth." And that was blunt. Like Woolsey was kinda glad to get a load off his mind. But he still wasn't coming out with whatever was bothering him, least ways not all of it. He picked and neatened blank sheets of paper, laid them down again, positioning a pencil parallel to the upper edge. All exactly as they had been in the first place.

"He's not one of the marines, is he?" Kelsoe had worn the uniform of utility personnel. "So how come you're telling me this?"

Woolsey sighed and pulled a hand over his mouth. Like this wasn't going to be easy. Like this was going to be 'do you want the bad news first, or the worse-than-bad news'?

"You saved him from a Wraith but not before he was partially fed upon. You don't remember?"

Sheppard did have a vague recollection of the incident. Of visiting a young marine in the infirmary and it'd felt like Ford all over… but so much had happened since then.

"The feeding was never a problem," continued Woolsey. "Once discharged on medical grounds, he opted to stay on. He was found a place with Pearson's cleaning staff and everything's been fine. But lately, Dr. Cornwell has expressed concerns about his mental well being." Woolsey referred to his data pad. "Signs indicative of a variant of schizophrenia. A veritable cocktail of paranoia's. Even believes… well, he needs to find God."

Sheppard pulled a face and shifted uncomfortably, at a loss how exactly to reply to that. "Perhaps we all-"

"No, no, he needs to find God and _kill_ him."

"Well, yeah… I guess then, the guy does have certain issues, but again, how does this concern me?" He didn't mean to sound so callous, but what was Woolsey's point?

"Comparing his medical file with other victims of partial feeding, it's been discovered that there is a pattern here. All other victims have developed very similar conditions and are all now patients in mental institutions, even those poor... er... souls who have never suffered any physical decline."

Woolsey wouldn't meet his eye. And Sheppard could now see what Woolsey had been driving at and his stomach clenched.

"My situation wasn't the same," said Sheppard quietly.

"Yes, but, you can understand the concerns… I mean… twice… first the Wraith, Todd, and then the Iratus Virus."

"You want _me_ out of here too?" His voice came out as tight as he felt.

"No, by all means, no, it doesn't have to go that far-"

"For now-"

"We're just asking for regular visits to Dr. Cornwell to assess-"

"And it'll be on my record, and at the next review board, I'll be out of here! Damn, Woolsey!" And Sheppard stood suddenly, hands on his hips, turning, angrily glaring out of window, running a hand through his hair in frustration, feeling the flare of pain at his back and not caring.

"I'm sorry, Colonel. This one is out of my hands."

"Yeah. Protocols. Who needs them, huh? You know," and he looked back at Woolsey, shook his head with the sheer disbelief, "one little thing, _one little thing_, is all it's going to take..." and he couldn't finish and turned back to the window.

"If it's any consolation, it's felt that anything... untoward would have surfaced by now. That's why you're not being shipped out alongside Kelsoe."

"Thanks," said Sheppard, and could he be blamed for not keeping the sarcasm out of his voice?

"I understand that you and Pat Cornwell are good friends?"

So that made it ok?

"Yeah. I'll meet up with her tomorrow," he said softly. Woolsey's relief came at him in waves. Sheppard didn't exactly possess the best record for keeping psychiatric review appointments.

"Good. Good." And Woolsey was shuffling those papers again. "I'm sure this matter will be resolved..."

But Sheppard didn't catch the rest, staring at his reflection in the glass and then at Atlantis beyond, certain he'd just thrown the first of Carson's aces.

-oAo-

What... the hell?

It was black. There was no moonlight. And there was a gun at his throat.

He blinked against the darkness. As if it'd then be day. Blinked against sleep. As if he'd wake up and this would be a dream. He'd gotten that right? A gun? But there was no mistaking the cold press of metal just below his jaw. However much he blinked.

"Don't move!" hissed a whisper.

"Won't," was all he could struggle out. And he blinked again because he sure daren't breathe.

He thought, lights. He really wanted to see his would-be attacker. Though... he'd be dead by now if that had been the guy's intention? To attack him?

Atlantis seemed to overreact and the room blazed for a second, like some sun close up. She'd sensed his fear? He had to blink again. Lots. Before he could focus.

And it was Dominic Kelsoe's face haloed by the far wall lamps.

And he was desperate. Both hands gripping knuckle-white on Sheppard's own 90ml.

And no way was Sheppard going to launch himself at the guy. Pity, John? Yeah, pity. Kelsoe can't help it. And... it'd be damned suicidal.

Help... Perhaps Kelsoe had just come to ask for help, to ask not to be sent back home. And Sheppard could talk him round. He had a memory of some training course. Of a squeaky pen scrawling interminably over a board. Of a voice droning on and on... how to deal with men who finally break under the strain... to recognise the signs. Was one being woken up in the dead of the night with a gun at your head? Had to be.

And Kelsoe was supposed to be gunning for God, not Lieutenant Colonels. No threat then.

"Wanna -" No threat but Sheppard's voice cracked all the same.

He shifted as he spoke and Kelsoe must have misunderstood the movement, pushing the gun in even tighter. Sheppard flinched, shutting his eyes quick... waiting... waiting... heart pounding in his ears... waiting... slowly daring to exhale that held breath... inhaling and exhaling again in short bursts... tense as hell...

He'd gotten that wrong then, the part about talking the guy round, the part about Kelsoe bearing no grudges against Lieutenant Colonels even. But, he still wasn't dead.

"Listen!" began Kelsoe, "You listen! You just do as I say and you won't get hurt." And Sheppard opened his eyes again and silently agreed. "I don't want to hurt you. No sudden moves. Ok? I'm going to back away. You get off the bed. Like I said. No sudden moves. No calling out. I don't want to... I don't want to kill you but I have nothing to lose if I do. You get off the bed and you get dressed. Hands always where I can see them. Understand?" Kelsoe slackened off and allowed Sheppard room to nod. "Ok... I'm moving away now... nice and slow... off the bed... with your hands clear."

And the gun was fixed cold straight at Sheppard, held by steady hands, despite the tremor in Kelsoe's voice. Two years out of combat duties, but Kelsoe's army training still held good. It meant he'd be ready for anything Sheppard might try. Crap, he'd probably be ready for it before Sheppard even thought of it.

Sheppard sat up and gingerly lowered his feet to the floor.

Now.

Now, he could lunge forward, but Kelsoe watched Sheppard and Sheppard watched the damned gun. Sheppard would have no chance. He stood slowly and held his hands away from his body.

"Your clothes... over on that chair?" And Kelsoe indicated over to the desk... and yeah, it'd been kinda messy of Sheppard the night before, he knew, but he'd come in late last night... He nodded, and Kelsoe edged his way round the room, the gun never wavering, even when he freed a hand to gather up the pile of clothes, throwing them over onto the bed. "Put them on. Keep the boxers but change the vest. I need you in full uniform."

"No chance of clean laundry then?" quipped Sheppard. Not that he really wanted to strip down at the moment.

A quick shake of the head. Kelsoe was in no mood. Whatever it was he intended to do, whatever it was he intended doing to, or _with_ Sheppard, he was being serious, deadly serious.

Sheppard sighed and reached for the hem of his tee and pulled it over his head, grunting as the fabric caught at the dressing on his back. He'd all but forgotten the injury.

"So, going to tell me what you're planning?" he asked, immediately stretching over for his black tee.

"Slowly! I told you! Slowly!"

"Hey!" and Sheppard held up his hands again, still holding the vest. "Hey! I'm not going to try anything. Honest. Not while you're holding my own damn gun on me. Ok?"

"Yeah. Yeah." Kelsoe licked his lips nervously, and Sheppard took that as meaning it was now safe to pull on the tee.

"It's... it's not difficult... what I'm planning... not for you..." jittered out Kelsoe, that desperate look of his down-grading to craziness. Sheppard had gotta be careful. It wasn't a case of promising he wouldn't try anything, it was most definitely a case of _not_ trying anything. One false move and that gun was just gonna go off.

He slipped on his shirt, buttoned up and then nodded at his BDU's questioning. Kelsoe nodded back.

"What's not going to be difficult?" Keep the guy talking. Put him at ease. That came back from training courses too. Yeah, and who was going to put Lt. Col. John Sheppard at ease?

The gun moved sharply again. He saw it in his peripheral vision. As he stooped to pull on the pants.

Sheppard instantly reacted and stood up straight, hands out again. "Kelsoe! You want me to dress or not? Then you really are going to have to trust me. This is gonna take all night otherwise. And I, for one, wouldn't mind getting on with this, whatever _this _is and getting in some more shuteye." Though he knew that was never going to happen. He was out of bed for the duration now. But he had to draw Kelsoe out somehow. Put him off balance. Stop him. Overpower him.

"Sit on the bed," Kelsoe ordered, "sit on the bed and pull them up."

Sheppard supposed he _could_ have made a jump on Kelsoe at the moment of pulling up the pants but he doubted it. He'd probably trip and fall flat on his face. But if that's how Kelsoe saw it... He sighed and sat down, wriggling into the BDU's. This was damned awkward and verging on embarrassing. He leaned back slightly to draw up the fly.

"Still not going to let me in on things?"

"You'll find out soon enough." A voice so terse that hot dread balled up in Sheppard's stomach. Perhaps he was the intended target after all, and this getting dressed part was just a charade. Kelsoe was just doing this for kicks, getting a thrill out watching Sheppard dress and then kill him with his uniform on... funny... Sheppard kinda thought it might have been the other way round... want to watch him undress and beg for mercy...

His socks were flung at him and his boots kicked across the floor. "Remember! Slow!"

Ok. Point taken. Kelsoe just wasn't going to open up. This wasn't looking so good. But at least he was going to die with his boots on, he supposed... Damn, he couldn't just sit here and let that happen. He'd just gotta make a move soon, but he still had that reluctance, still firmly believed that Kelsoe couldn't help himself and no way would he want to be responsible for the man's death.

"How did you get in by the way?" he asked as he slid on a sock.

"Utility staff get given the door codes. They're changed every day but I made sure I got cleaning detail for your quarters this morning. The codes aren't changed again till the dawn shift reports in at four."

"That easy, huh?" He'd got to get that changed if he ever survived this.

"Yeah. That easy."

Sheppard finished off the last tie on his boots and looked up. At the gun. At Kelsoe... expecting his next orders... like... kneel, while Kelsoe delivered a bullet into his brain...

"Ok... the door... you in front."

"Slowly." He was getting used to the routine by now.

"Yeah. Slowly."

He stood, warily keeping his hands where Kelsoe could see them, noting Kelsoe's nervous tight hold on the gun. It wouldn't take much... It wouldn't take much for Kelsoe to fire... And Kelsoe was nervous? Wanna try walking to a door with a gun aimed at your back.

"Take off the lights and open the door." Sheppard plunged his quarters into darkness and Kelsoe closed in behind him in an instant, jabbing the gun against his ribcage, saying nothing, the weapon speaking volumes. He thought the door open and it slid aside to reveal a deserted corridor.

"Where to now?" This had better not be the Control Room and a megalomaniac's attempt to take over Atlantis.

"Jumper bay."

"Jumper bay?" Now that shouldn't have surprised him. That Kelsoe would want to leave and not be returned to Earth. "You figuring on a trip? And you want a pilot?" His mind was already thinking of spare guns in jumper cabinets, though he was still unwilling to take Kelsoe on and hurt the guy.

"Yeah... get going..." Kelsoe pushed Sheppard forward. "And if we meet anyone-"

"Don't let on."

"Yeah."

"Why me?" asked Sheppard, walking on, wishing he could create a gap between his back and that gun and still trying to strike up a conversation, to put Kelsoe off guard. "You could have asked anyone... sorry... that's, _forced_ anyone at gunpoint. Why me?" He'd prefer it was him. He wouldn't want anyone else going through this. It'd be good to have an answer to the question though.

"I... I dunno... I thought... I thought... you'd understand..."

"I understand that you're playing a very dangerous game here, and... you know... I can't let you go..."

The gun was shoved harder against his back, making him wince. It was too damned close to his wound. And he'd been too damned close to nearly provoking Kelsoe.

"You're going to do this!" insisted the guy. There was anger there. Panic there. Sheppard inwardly shrugged. This was how he was going to play it then... undermine Kelsoe's confidence... make Kelsoe doubt his own capabilities...

They were now approaching the nearest transporter. This was perhaps Sheppard's chance of a diversion.

"And _you're_ going to get very dead if you fire that thing. No one will rest until they find you."

"It's not for me. It's for Rosie!" And that was supposed to mean something?

And then...

The transporter door suddenly sprang open...

Crap.

Rodney.

Rounding the doors before they were fully opened. Eating a sandwich, and studying a data pad held one-handed. Not seeing. Walking straight into Sheppard. Squashing the sandwich against his mouth. Dropping the data pad. The loud clatter echoing down the silent Lantean corridor...

That had so got to have wiped important stuff Rodney had been working on since 1972.

"What...? Don't...? Look what you made me doooooo?!" Backing off, spitting, spluttering, peeling off pieces of bread and mystery relish from his face.

"Can't you look..." Still screaming.

"Where...." Not screaming so much.

"Where..." Clarity and comprehension as his eyes met those of Sheppard's.

"You're..." A whole ten decibels quieter.

"Going...?" Voice scarcely a whisper. Because Kelsoe's idea of not letting on if they met anyone just wasn't happening. He'd grabbed Sheppard's arm and was forcing the gun close against Sheppard's jugular.

And all Sheppard could manage out was, "Run!"

And Rodney said, "Yes... better run then..." But he didn't. He froze. Because, hey, it's not every time you go to the mess hall for a late night snack and discover Colonel Sheppard being pushed along a corridor at gunpoint.

And Sheppard said, "Rodney." Because there was nothing he could do.

And Rodney said, "Sheppard." Because there was nothing _he _could do either.

And Kelsoe pushed the gun even harder to Sheppard's neck and said, "I _will_ kill him."

-oAo


	3. Chapter 3

Madacran

Chapter Three

The jumper was parked up for the night in a damp clearing in a damp forest on a world shrouded in dark mists.

They were lost but Sheppard had a plan.

"Are you mad?" hissed Rodney. "You'll get us all killed!"

Sheppard ignored Rodney, like that was new, nudging the packages further into the fire with the ends of his boots. And Rodney might be wrong anyway. He doubted this would actually kill them all. Mad? There was that possibility that Sheppard could be mad. They were expecting him to go mad, weren't they? But he just needed a diversion. This had gone on long enough.

MREs. Fill them with water. That reacts with the chemical. Said reaction gives off heat. Hot food. Without a fire. But said reaction also gave off hydrogen. For pranks, you could collect the hydrogen. Throw it in the fire. And watch everyone jump out their skin. Fun. But the potential to land you in hospital, or the morgue and on a plane home under a flag. Certainly the brig. You had to be drunk, mad or… desperate. Sheppard wished he was just drunk. But he was mad and desperate. It might not work. With his hands tied to a root of a gnarled old tree, he obviously couldn't collect the gas. So nothing for it but to shove in all four meals whole. He imagined that all they'd end up with was burnt dinner, shrink wrapped with melted plastic.

A backpack was just within reach of his boot too. Sheppard also gave that a jab with his toe but it didn't make it all the way. Even that going up in smoke might cause Kelsoe to hop around a bit, take him off guard, getting him close enough for Sheppard to take him down in a leg lock.

It was easy enough to do this unseen. Every night, Kelsoe and Rosie found themselves a spot away from Rodney and Sheppard. Laughing and giggling. And it was easy enough to guess what else. Rodney's eyes must have ached from the constant eye rolling.

Rosie, it seemed had turned out to be as deranged as Kelsoe. Rodney's words. And he'd said them out loud.

'Don't think you're supposed to say 'deranged',' pointed out Sheppard, in a ssshing voice, hoping Rodney would keep it down. As unstable as Kelsoe was, it wouldn't do to upset the guy.

'Well, pardon me for being politically incorrect! Next, you're going to say, I can't call them abductors, either! Gainst criminal rights? Mothers wouldn't like it? Hmmm?! Mad as fruitcakes the two of them. They make a good pair. A match made in Heaven. And she promised to talk him out of it!' pouted Rodney. Night after night of sleeping rough hadn't worked wonders with his temperament. Nor had day after day of planet hopping to see the sights of Pegasus.

If Rodney's mood was black, or Sheppard's for that matter, it was due to the knowledge they were now irretrievably lost. Kelsoe might be 'deranged', but he knew exactly what he was doing. DHD after DHD accessed, sometimes even asking Rosie to dial in random numbers just for the sheer fun of seeing where they'd surface. It was a dangerous game of Russian roulette. They could easily have ended up in the lap of the Wraith or the crater of some volcano. And now their trail had gone stone cold. No way were they ever going to be tracked by Atlantis. Rosie probably knew all this and had just accepted the fact... and she was dying anyway... little by little...

'You had only to ask nice, and I would have taken her for a ride,' Sheppard had said when they'd first arrived in the jumper bay. Relieved mostly, that that had been the only reason why they'd been kidnapped. But no one could persuade a man who was ultimately gunning for God to give this up. And Rodney was an added bonus. Sheppard might have risked personal injury to take on Kelsoe, but never Rodney's well-being. It was Rodney's neck now that the gun had been turned on. And Sheppard had quietly piloted the cloaked jumper out of Atlantis to... where ever...

The fourth MRE went into the fire and Rodney was already edging away. Sheppard thought he'd better follow suit. He was closest after all. It was tight but if Rodney moved over, there was room for the two of them to tuck themselves into the tree hollow.

A fizzing sound. And it was like waiting for a damp firework to go off on a wet Fourth of July. You just didn't know when that bang would come… He risked a peek. The rucksack had fallen into the fire after all. Something flared suddenly. He ducked. As the whole forest lit up. A series of explosions. He hadn't expected that. It'd worked? Perhaps he should have only put one meal in. Kelsoe had ringed the fire with stones. A kettle had hung on sticks for coffee. All lost in a hail of bullets and missiles. Ammo... ammo in the rucksack... they'd been ammo in the damn rucksack? Pinging and thudding into trees. Kicking up spits of earth. Banging and ricocheting against wood. Kelsoe was shouting. Rosie was screaming. Things started dying down. Lesser popping, whistling and cracking. But Rosie was still screaming. And then… she wasn't. And Kelsoe was cursing. Cursing and sobbing. And still sobbing when the campsite went fully quiet again.

What had Sheppard done? Numb. Rosie...?

Kelsoe was up. There. Standing before Sheppard. Rage. And Kelsoe grabbed his hair to make him sit up.

"Fuck you, Sheppard! What did you do! What did you fucking do?" he screeched.

The fire still blazed. And Sheppard registered the shrapnel wounds on Kelsoe's legs. The gash on his cheek. What _had_ he done?

And the rifle butt seemed to tear out his face. Again and again Kelsoe struck him with the P90. Raining down blow after blow, broken only by hard kicks of his military boots. Rodney shouting. Somewhere.

"Don't! Don't! Don't! You're going to kill him!"

"Like I fucking care! Like I fucking care!"

And then... Sheppard didn't care anymore either…

-oAo-

And Rodney had to pilot the jumper from then on.

And every time they'd stopped after that, Kelsoe staked Sheppard to the ground by his wrists and ankles. So he wouldn't be trouble. So that his wounds hurt more.

And Rodney had to feed him. Somehow. Though Sheppard could hardly eat. Didn't want to eat.

His face and the side of his head was all mashed up. Bloodied, bruised and one eye swollen shut.

And they had to listen to Rosie, who had been dying anyway, die a little more, a little faster, every day.

And Rodney wasn't sure that Sheppard wasn't dying too.

Until… in the desert of some godforsaken planet… when the jumper had broken down and Rodney couldn't fix it...

"I only wanted to show her the stars, Sheppard… I only ever wanted to show her the stars…"

-oAo-

And when Kelsoe and Rodney had buried Rosie under a pile of rocks in the white noon sun of the desert, Kelsoe had shouted to the merciless skies, "I'm gonna kill you God! I'm gonna hunt you down and send you to the hell you deserve!" His voice didn't even echo, lost, absorbed in the hot dry dust.

It seemed such a waste of effort to Rodney, to curse some non-existent omnipotent in this temperature. He collapsed over onto his back. "Some prayer, Kelsoe," he muttered. Not caring if Kelsoe heard because he doubted Kelsoe was capable of listening anyhow.

He was in a desert, goodness knows where in the Galaxy, with a madman, a broken jumper, little food or water... and... Sheppard.

"Sheppard?" Rodney crawled over to the jumper, found a bottle of water, and staggered back out to his friend, still staked out in the blistering heat and knelt heavily at his side. Kelsoe stood at Rosie's grave, mumbling, incoherent. Well, he would go mad, madder, staying out there in the sun. Perhaps that might help if Kelsoe got madder. Rodney doubted it.

"Sheppard... drink..." Rodney was too exhausted and drained and dehydrated to say more. He reached behind Sheppard's head with a filthy dirty hand and gently lifted it, so that... well, it wasn't exactly drinking... it was more like just trying to pour the liquid in. And then he splashed a little over the broken face. "God... Sheppard... God... Sheppard... how did we ever get into this mess?" There were some words uttered, struggled out in response that Rodney couldn't understand. Rodney's head was splitting and he was too dazed. If he was feeling like this, what kind of hell was Sheppard going through? Wearily, he began to loosen off the rope that bound the nearest wrist.

"No! No! No!" And Kelsoe, suddenly alert to what was going on, came storming over, pulling his gun out of his holster, eyes flaring, livid with anger.

"Oh, stop it, Kelsoe! What's it to you if I untie him? I mean, _now? _Honestly? It's over..."

"You... you leave him!" yelled out Kelsoe, his hand holding the gun visibly shaking. "He's still being punished!"

And Rodney could as easily lose his temper, and temper works marvels on adrenalin rush and tapping into unknown energy reserves. He jumped up, advancing on Kelsoe, pointing his best lecturing finger at him.

"Listen, you cretin! I haven't gone through all this... this… this joy-riding, this utter pointless waste of time, to watch my friend go through any more of this! Rosie was dying anyway! It was not his fault! It was your fault for bringing us all out here. If you'd returned to Atlantis, she could have had the medical attention she needed! And if she hadn't have died today, she would have died the day after tomorrow! We're _all_ going to die the day after tomorrow! The jumper can't be fixed! We're running out of food and water! We are lost! And in case you haven't noticed already.... it is _hot_, here! Do you not understand screwed?!!!"

And Kelsoe fired.

At Rodney's boots. Oh boy, he had so gotten this wrong -

He turned to flee but threw himself at the ground instead, hands protecting his head, as a barrage of bullets kicked up a ring of dust all round him. Flinching. Jerking in the sand. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!" If one didn't hit, he was gonna die of a heart attack any time soon.

And then it went quiet. And Rodney picked up courage to raise his head slightly. Sheppard had turned his head towards Rodney, opened his eyes, trying to focus. Well, the noise _had_ been enough to wake the... half-dead.

"Rod... ney... Do... do...as he... says... Don't... get... yourself killed..."

"Sheppard-"

"Do it!" ordered Kelsoe standing beside him, kicking over the strand of rope that had tied Sheppard's wrist. "Tie him up again."

"You just don't get it!" hollered Rodney, while doing as he was told... naturally... "We have to leave this place!"

"I know. And we will. Just the two of us. You and me. There's only enough water for the two of us. To reach the town we flew over." Suddenly he didn't seem crazy anymore. He'd been making plans. And Kelsoe turned on his heels and made for the jumper, presumably to sort out supplies.

And the implication of what he'd just said sunk in for Rodney. Sheppard left to die... And then... if Rosie had lived, it would have been Rosie and Kelsoe who would have left the desert, and Sheppard _and_ Rodney who would have been left to die.

Rodney was doing a good line in fury that day and he soon scrabbled up to his feet again.

"You are _not_ leaving him behind!"

"He wants it that way. You heard him, he would want his precious McKay saved. I don't care if you come or not, though... you might be useful. I won't have to carry everything... yeah... you're coming too."

"_I'm_ not leaving him behind either!"

"Quit arguing!" And Kelsoe came out of the jumper and shoved a rucksack at Rodney's chest. Rodney dumbly held it in his hands as Kelsoe set about filling another.

"You can't leave him!"

"Watch me!" Banging around inside.

"I could carry him! I could go without water!" Which he knew was stupid. He couldn't. The town had been seven miles away.

"He's injured. He'll never make it anyway," pointed out Kelsoe.

"Oh, and whose fault is that?!!!"

"His. And you'd never make it carrying him. Neither of us would. He wants me to save you. Ask him."

And Sheppard groaned. Rodney looked down at his friend, and yes, he might have said 'go'.

Rodney could hardly bear this. He'd spent the last three days nursing him. And, of course, Sheppard would say go... Of course, Sheppard would sacrifice himself that way... Of course, Sheppard would say go... riddled with guilt as he was over Rosie.

"Or I could leave you here with him. Those are your only options, McKay!" Kelsoe came back out, slinging the rucksack over his shoulders, indicating to Rodney that he should do the same with his.

"At least untie him!"

"He's being punished!" So he was still mad crazy, cuckoo, a loony... and Rodney couldn't understand this madman's logic, that seemed to swing from being on Sheppard's side, to not. To being on Rodney's side, to not. As if somewhere in that crooked mind of his he was trying to justify his actions, to instill them with righteousness, but they were still all actions of a madman.

"Get moving!" Kelsoe pushed Rodney roughly away from the jumper... away from Sheppard. Rodney twisted round in his grip, trying to see his friend for one last time.

"You can't... can't leave him like this!"

"It's kinder this way! He'll be out of it in half an hour. I'm surprised he's not already!"

And Rodney freed himself from Kelsoe's hold. "That's because he's tougher than that!"

"You want me to put a bullet through his head, huh?!" Face to face glaring. "You want me to do that? Because that's the other alternative! You wanta put a bullet through his head, huh? I'll do it if you want me to! Is that what you want? Your choice, McKay!" And there he went again... with the choices... a madman... warping things... How was that any sort of choice? When ever had any of this been down to Rodney's choice?

"Don't leave him! Please, please, I'm begging you, don't leave him!" And this was a first. Rodney couldn't remember begging anyone for anything. Ever. His own voice, alien and foreign to him.

"Go... go... Rod...ney," the low voice of his friend down on the ground. Equally alien. Devoid of all hope.

"Don't..." though Rodney couldn't say, couldn't really say who he'd said that to. Himself? Or Sheppard?

"Go..."

"Sheppard, I'm sorry."

"My... bad... go..."

"Get moving, McKay!" And Kelsoe was pushing him away again.

"Sheppard..." And Rodney turned his back and walked on into the desert.

-oAo-

Rodney stumbled on, across a desert with a man who was mad. Each step agonizing. And it had little to do with the heat. A future with no future. With a man who was mad. Perhaps he was going mad himself. He certainly felt less of a man.

Once he fell down, face in the sand and prayed he'd die. But Kelsoe picked him up and supported him, taking one of Rodney's arms over his shoulder.

"Why?" he could hardly whisper.

Why? A question that could mean so many things. With so many answers. Once, he thought he had all those answers. Eons and eons ago. When the sun didn't beat down quite so hot. When his brain and eyes weren't so scorched white and blank. When his knees weren't all feebly and droopy. When his mouth didn't feel like he'd been drinking the desert dust.

Someone said you have to seek the questions first...

"Why are you mad?" he'd asked once. Thought he'd asked. Meant to ask. Maybe. Or not.

Blame the Wraith. Yeah... always blame the Wraith.

Why are you bothering to save me?

He wanted it... he saved my life once.

You're not making sense. Why not save him?

Then I'd have to kill you.

You're not making any sense... you're mad.

I know... blame the Wraith.

Why the Wraith?

The Wraith tried to kill me... they made me mad...

Going round and round in circles... Going round and round in circles in the desert... he was sure they were... then he and Kelsoe were both going to die... and wouldn't that be funny?... and he giggled hysterically... wouldn't it be funny if Sheppard were rescued... and they were to die?... then there was little point worrying about Sheppard... he needn't worry about Sheppard ever again... no... not ever again...

Why?

Why was he worrying about Sheppard? Sheppard was staked out in the desert... but they were _all_ going to die...

Why was Sheppard his friend? Because he did all those nice friend-like things and saved you and stuff... and make the universe appear if he sat in a big blue chair... Rodney didn't... he was a mad man but not a man... he didn't go saving people... he left them to die in the desert... they were all going to die in the desert...

And why?

Because Rodney had to have a sandwich late one night. See Sheppard! I can do the guilt trip too! See. You don't have to blame Wraith, Kelsoe... you only have to blame a sandwich... they were all going to die... because of a sandwich... that's why...

They were all going to die.

"You believe in God, Kelsoe?"

"Yeah, I intend to find him and kill him."

I could have a bone to pick with him, too, you know. Not exactly played fair, has he? What do you think he looks like then? You need to know what he looks like if you intend to kill him. Professor Godfrey Lantry, Doctor of Physics liked people to call him God, you know. Don't think God looks like him somehow...

Quit talking, McKay. You're not making sense.

He had a head of curly ginger hair... had... had... all the appearance of a wig... perhaps... perhaps it _was_ a wig... Do you think God wears a wig? Why would God wear a wig? Because he has some terrible scalp condition? Why wouldn't God have some terrible scalp condition?... You know that God isn't human? You know that, Kelsoe? You _don't_ know that, do you?

Shut up, McKay.

That's because you're mad, you know? What was I saying? Old Godfrey liked his friends to call him God for short, you know? Did I say that already? Am I repeating myself? He liked to think he was God... always ordering the department around... we post grads were scared of him... You're not scared of God, Kelsoe? Because we're all going to meet him soon... Perhaps in the next hour... you and me both...

Why do you keep on talking?

Why oh why oh why? Because it stops me thinking, that's why... no... mad... mad... I must be mad... I've left my best friend to die in the desert... a mad man told me to do it... and I did it... just like that... why oh why oh why?... Where are we?

Drink.

Why?

That question again... why? Or the answer to the universe... forty-two... Why?

Why are you giving me drink?

To keep you alive, you fool!

Why?

Because he wanted me to.

You're mad you know that? Have I told you that? Where are we?

Some place called Madacran.

Mad Acran. No kidding.

-oAo-


	4. Chapter 4

Madacran

Chapter Four

He watched it because there was little else he could do. It had no name. No shape. No outline. And it hurt. And the heat... it was still burning him. He let it go... let it slip into darkness...

The next time... a roaring in his ears... he was hanging up-side-down?... but it was his chest... the pressure on his stomach that hurt as much as his head... an agony that held him, nailed him to something between nothingness and this crazy swaying motion... he retched but it gave him no pity... and that something... it still kept moving... a beat... regular... four... four... four... and four of them... four of them had put him here... he remembered their hands, hell, they might as well been knives... but they'd only been trying to help... he knew that... and Rodney... and Kelsoe... he remembered... they'd left him... and the thing that moved kept its steady pace... the ground blurred… he had no understanding of the hooves misting into haziness along with his swinging arms... his right, a blood red pendulum that throbbed another beat into his smashed up, pecked at face... stop this... stop this... stop this... not to going to make it... not this time... curtains... finis... end of... luck out... another ace thrown... and darkness nearly took him again... roused by that stench... black hide that matted with the blood on his face... his stomach retched again... cracking open his lips and throat... and he twisted... the stink... and he puked... the pain impaling from the inside out... and there were voices again...

"I fucking told you! We can't just sling him over a trowsy! Get him off! Get him off!"

Words that meant nothing. His own thoughts, pleading... stop this... stop this... and the something that moved stopped... and his prayer took him into oblivion...

Where light fleetingly flooded in under closed lids, fusing nightmares with shimmering mirages of hot sand, miracles and angels.

-oAo-

Rodney remembered the conversation like it'd been only half an hour ago. Probably because it had been. Though he didn't know that. Not for certain. Not since the slaver had confiscated his watch thinking it was some precious bracelet.

'You want to eat, don't you?' Kelsoe had asked.

And yes, he had... but...

'There has to be some other way! Can't you... can't you... _steal _or something?' They'd already tried begging and that had earned them nothing but kicks up the backsides.

And Kelsoe had given Rodney a withering look that was equal to any of Sheppard's... no... don't go there... but his heart had sunk already at the reminder... Sheppard would be dead by now and Rodney was alive with a madman who was considering selling him in the local market as a slave.

'You want me to do something that's _illegal_?' Those military oaths those marines took, they were etched into their brains with a hot branding iron? Weren't rules meant to be broken? Especially if you were starving? Especially when your stomach just wouldn't stop growling? Especially when hypoglycaemia threatened with ever threatening light-headedness.

'And kidnapping me and selling me into slavery isn't?!' squawked Rodney like a madman at a madman.

'These people are honest folk as far as I can tell,' considered Kelsoe, completely unmoved.

Yes, and were well nifty with a sandal kick or two...

'I won't steal from them. We need some of their coinage to live and until I can find work, selling you is the only way. It's for your own good. You'll get looked after.'

'You mean _you_ need the money! How come_ I _don't get to go looking for work and _you_ don't get sold as a slave?'

'There isn't much call for scientists round here, McKay. Only soldiers.' And Kelsoe had looked significantly across the street of white-walled buildings where three or four such soldiers had stood standing, keeping the peace on market day. Madacran was apparently 'Roman' so they were fully regaled out in centurion costumes, straight out of Ben Hur. Tall, muscular, imposing. Rodney couldn't even come close. And he had sorta caved in inside and it was nothing to do with hunger. A potential Nobel winner and he was, after all, an abject failure.

'All the other work is done by slaves or craftsmen. Think you could turn your hand to wood carving, McKay?'

And so he'd allowed Kelsoe to lead him to his doom, so miserable with Sheppard being dead, so miserable with the way his life was turning out right then.

Kelsoe had sold him to the slave dealer for five coins and it hadn't sounded much.

'You cretin! I'm worth more than that!'

The slaver had cocked a head to one side, studying him. 'Needs cleaning up a bit. And I've got to fit him out with a tunic.' And he would offer no more. Kelsoe, seemingly grateful, had readily pocketed the money. And left.

Well, he hoped that all Kelsoe could buy with that was some mouldy cabbage. He hoped that Kelsoe starved. No, he didn't. Because, right now, Kelsoe was all he had...

Kelsoe was the only miserable tenuous link to his past life. And Kelsoe had, after all, _tried_ to look after him. Then... Rodney had just better make the best of a bad job. Buckle down... buckle under, more like.

He was so bemoaning his fate that he hardly noticed it was his turn to be scrutinized by potential buyers. He'd been informed by the dark haired, pot bellied, garlic-breathed oaf of a slaver as he admired Rodney's watch, that today was Lady's Day. That meant all the buyers were females. Well, congratulations Mr Einstein slash so-not-business-man-of-the-year slash watch-pilferer-extraordinaire, for explaining that one. Rodney had eyes didn't he, and could see that for himself? _Hello?!_

He'd also been told they sometimes didn't mind the short stocky podgy types and that had piqued his pride. But there was still some of that left in there somewhere, and he made a pretty good effort at retrieving it by squaring back his shoulders, when approached by some aristocratic looking lady, complete with flowing regal purple robes and a large entourage of giggling-girls-in-waiting, all eyeing him up and down.

"Your name?" she demanded with all the imperiousness of authoritative women that Rodney so admired... did he just _think_ that?

"Dr. Rodney McKay, PhD," he announced impressively.

But he lost all pride again when the lady requested that he be examined more fully, using explicit words that couldn't possibly match her station in life.

"What? No! No! This is a mistake! I'm not supposed to be here! I'm not... _cattle_! You... you can't-" And slaver assistants' hands covered his mouth and held his arms tight.

"Of course, Lady Dochelimar." And the slave dealer bowed low and indicated that Rodney be led away, kicking and screaming, to the discretion of a nearby white tent.

"Nmmm! Nnngg!"

-oAo-

Jaleen pulled up the covering, neatly folded it back at his chest, laying his arms at his side, each in turn over the fold. She nodded to herself, checking his peaceful face. Joherner was so soundly asleep now, he'd even been unaware that she had bathed him, to wash away the last of the fever. The potion she had prepared earlier, of endevol herbs, would help with the deep nursing slumber he was sorely in need of, allowing his body to further complete its own repair.

When he awoke, she would have broth ready for him. For strength. He had lost so much blood. For although she was a healer, she could never replace what was not there. Similarly, she was unable to replace death with life. Her gift enabled her to encourage the healing process, to encourage tissue into rapid repair, and, in the case of fever and infection, which had inflicted Joherner soon after his arrival at Jaleen's quarters, to stimulate his own immune system to create future defences.

'You must be patient, Toplon-Husband. For it will be many days before the fatigue and weakness leaves him. These were neglected injuries,' she had said, as Toplon frowned down at the sleeping stranger, concerned and shaken at the last bout of fever that had nearly claimed the man's life.

Jaleen had sent for him as soon as the raving had seemed unmanageable, when Joherner had been screaming and sobbing to remove the secrids from the room that simply were not there, so convinced he was that they were attacking him still. Together they had calmed and soothed him. Wrapped him in damp cooling blankets. But it had left Toplon feeling cold at the torment of the stranger's mind.

'Aggravated by the secrid and exposure to the sun, yes, I know.' And Toplon did know. He had been a revered surgeon. Once. 'But he is our means to escape from Madacran, Jaleen-Wife. For you to be free. I am certain of it. We have seen the cruel hand of fate before, how it can strike without warning. Delay... delay might invite such a repetition,' Toplon had said.

Jaleen sighed and leaned over the bed positioned below a small window to open the shutters, admitting the evening sunshine and breezes that blew in the scents of the aurora flowers outside. She inhaled deeply, enjoying what was offered before glancing down again at the stranger's face. At the way, his damp, dark hair clung to his forehead. At the way, the low soft breathing left his lips. She had shaved his beard, revealing a mouth, firm, full, determined, even in sleep. Empathy stirred within her. Here was a good man. She knew it down to her very soul. She had felt it as she had healed him.

She removed her basin, disposing of the water into the stone sink in one corner of the room, neatly hung up the cloth and towel to dry on their hooks, and then set about preparing vegetables for soup at the adjacent table.

Usually, her patients affected her little. Seldric's friends who'd injured themselves during drinking bouts. Lord Recito's friends to cure them of… disease of the groin, as it was politely called. And Lord Recito objected if she ever offered her help to fellow slaves and would have her beaten if he so pleased. As his slave, she was his and his alone to order. He had bestowed her with these private quarters, attached to Government House, in recognition that she was his favourite after all. Why should he share, indeed? And he needed to know they would be private, in case he required her... services. As she became older, those particular visits were becoming more rare. But it still hurt, that besides the name Jaleen, she was also known as the Whore of Recito.

Nevertheless, out of pity, she would never turn anyone away. Fellow slaves and those residing in Lower Madacran, lived such an impoverished life and were so malnourished they were frequent visitors to her door. They were often brought to her too late, however. Too many times, there was little she could do to aid them.

She scrubbed at an andovius root.

This was simple compassion towards Joherner then?

And she picked up another root, unsure of the answer to her own question.

Occasionally, Toplon would bring her someone to recall from the brink, simply so he could use their organs for his richer fee-paying clients. 'I know that I am condemned to burn in hell. I know. You do not need to look at me that way,' he would say. But she would never deny him. He was her husband, after all.

She had been given to him as a reward of thanks as surgeon. He, the first to have ever known her body as a young girl of fifteen. On her world of Ulith, that act was regarded as the sanctification of marriage and she would always honour the consequent obligations expected of her. Even if her world were a million miles away. Even if her world was no more.

The people of Ulith been reduced by repeated Wraith cullings to a community of little more than thirty. All of them healers. But being so few in number and being such pacifists, they were easy prey to a passing slavers ship. She had been eventually sold on Toplon's own planet of Garasny. Toplon was then disgraced following a medical blunder that was not of his doing and Jaleen was removed from his household and sold on again. Mortified, Toplon had tracked her down to Madacran, surviving and paying for passage on Travellers' ships, the only way he knew how, trafficking in organs, only to find, he could never afford to re-purchase her, now she had become the property of the Lord Recito, Head of the Senate. _And _that they would have to escape on a Traveller's ship, for Madacran lacked an Ancient Gateway. He was still saving funds after ten long years, for the Travellers always demanded high prices for fare.

In his own way, Toplon was a good man too. He was devoted to her. 'Come Jaleen,' he used to say, 'run away. We could live in the mountains.' But soldiers were often sent out to sweep lands outside of towns, to find runaways. Simply for training. Merely for fun. And were rewarded with high bonuses and promotions, not to mention moton.

"Rodney..."

She started and dropped her knife into the bowl.

"Joherner?" and she hurried over to the stranger's side.

"Rodney?" Joherner weakly lifted his head from the pillow, searching the room with dazed eyes.

She gently coaxed him to lie down again, stroking his forehead, calming her own swelling of pity for the man that called for a friend.

"I have to find Rodney. Rodney McKay?" he hoarsely whispered, fighting the caress of her fingertips that lulled his eyes and brain to sleep.

"No... no... you must rest and when strong, seek your friend then." Toplon had explained that they'd been others at the spaceship, but they had left Joherner to die. Perhaps Rodney was the name of the buried woman. Perhaps then he would never find this Rodney.

"Might be... might be too late... gotta go now."

"No... no... nothing is ever too late."

But he rolled over suddenly, throwing off the covers, standing, unaware of his nakedness, pushing her to one side. He appeared to see the door, then staggered a step, then swayed and fell against her. And she somehow caught him and guided him back down to the bed.

"Figure... I can't... do that..." he said, with nearly a laugh at his own supposed stupidity, settling gratefully back into the pillow that she rearranged, eyes already heavy, scarcely noticing that she pulled up the covers again.

"It is unwise, yes. If you can describe who it is you wish to find, then I can send Toplon, my husband, to seek him or her out." It was her way of both being tactful and assuring. Distressing her patient with her belief that his friend was dead or wasn't indeed a true friend, would not help with his recovery. "In the meantime, sleep. I am preparing you food. With that and rest, you should be re-united with your friend in a few days." She was certain that she was offering him false hope. But his breathing came easier.

"What's your name?" he asked drowsily, without even opening his eyes.

"Jaleen."

"John Sheppard. Guess... I've got to trust you know best then..."

-oAo-

"Ah Docky, my good fellow, so kind of you to persuade Meria to offer your services even if only for such short periods." She'd obviously sent Docky to spy on him, knowing how much Selemon hated her brother, Lord Recito, present overlord of the Senate and, indeed, how much Selemon coveted that particular position. In all probability, she may have warned the slave of... no matter... If Selemon, played the elder bumbling statesman role, he was certain that he could soon dispel any suspicions Docky might have of him. Docky was only a scientist after all.

"And you have suffered a bereavement too?" This, Meria had told Selemon at a recent formal dinner engagement when his wife had been compelled to be civil to him for appearances sake. "This must be a very stressful time for you."

"Oh, you know... keeping busy, busy." Amusing Meria... yes, indeed.

But Docky was not inclined for small talk. He stood, apparently overcome, staring stupefied at the artefacts in Selemon's large anteroom, like a slave child might look at the platters at the confectioners, unable to believe that such sweetmeats could ever exist. It wasn't going to be so very difficult to pull Docky in... hook, line and sinker...

"I see you are admiring my modest collection." All strategically placed on carved marble pedestals en route to his study. All Ancient. None exactly modest. Vast amounts of supplies to the passing Travellers had often been the price to pay for some individual items. And it was exceedingly unfair of Travellers to make such high demands, as most were inoperable due the passage of time, or lack of expertise to put them right, or because of the absence of an ATA gene. But he could hardly drive the sort of bargain he liked, whereby the seller's price was simply his life and freedom. Word would soon spread and no one would be prepared to trade. This way the supply always met Selemon's demands. And he could always raise taxes and siphon off the extra funds.

"I've never seen - do you realise - ? I've never come across - this is more - " stuttered out Docky, as he darted eagerly from one display to the next.

"Do you know what you have here?" An actual completed sentence as Docky stopped suddenly and looked at Selemon intently. And it still irked Selemon, that Docky was seeing him as an equal. No. Even inferior. One day, Selemon would have to put that right and show Docky the meaning of true power.

Selemon shrugged. "They are simple pieces of history that are no longer of any consequence. These are perhaps only the more interesting of their kind. And then only to me. You like them? I must confess that most people's reactions to this redundant technology is rather derogatory. Meria calls it junk and questions my sanity to surround myself which such items. To me, however, it is art."

The art to destroy most probably, if a certain scientist could perhaps be persuaded to fix things for him.

"You have more?" asked Docky with incredulity.

"Oh, yes, rooms and rooms full." Selemon waved a hand back towards the door as if it were of little consequence.

"These here are chosen for display as the whim takes me." These here do not meet the category of weapon. "Unfortunately," and he affected a sigh, "I have never possessed the time to look into their antecedents in more detail or, to attempt some sort of cataloguing system. I wish that I had, but duties of state come first. You know how it is. And the old mind isn't what it used to be."

A large circular cage-like construction, stood central on a stand. "This is my latest addition. Any suggestions as to what it might be?"

Docky came over, walked around its four arm spans in diameter, studying it closely. It was by far the largest item in the room. Circles within circles. Metal bars that were either supportive struts or were cut with grooves. A platform at the very middle. Silver chains hanging everywhere.

Docky obviously decided it wasn't particularly remarkable, dismissing it, walking over to something else.

"It's some sort of gyroscope... the inner circles move inside the outer... and all round the platform... so it can be moved to any angle... I'm assuming it's some sort of inspection apparatus... a piece of machinery or whatever can be fastened to the platform and then turned for working on..."

He'd moved on, the cage forgotten already, impatient to inspect every item in the room.

"And what of this also?" Selemon pointed to a further object, half an arm span high, a hand span wide, metallic with two amber sections of dull glass.

Docky scarcely looked up from poking at, scrutinzing something silvery, crooked and angled. He was pretending not to notice?

"Yes. Yes. That might be significant," he said, in a cracked high pitched voice. Yes, very significant indeed then, and the Traveller who had sold it to Selemon had expressed a similar opinion. For some reason, Docky knew exactly what it was and was not saying. This was Selemon's test. The Traveller had called it a ZPM.

"Look," began Docky, "Would you... would you let me... catalogue them for you? Or to... um, at least see those other... um... artefacts...?"

Got him.

"Well, I suppose you clearly know what you're talking about. But Meria is only allowing you here for two hours every other day. I can't see how-"

"I'll persuade her."

"If you are so inclined. It little bothers me how you wish to spend your time. Though she is suspicious of me. She may start reading into this, something that is not."

"Cataloguing, isn't it?" asked Docky, smirking because it was going to be their little secret. " Oh, she can't have any problems with cataloguing, can she?" Selemon could see it. In the slave's eyes. Docky was itching to get these things up and running again. He perhaps even might have the ATA gene.

"It..." and Selemon coughed into a fist. "This is a little delicate for me. How shall I put it? It has not been unknown for one of her lovers to find his way into my bed. And she does tend to hold it against me rather."

"Oh..." And Docky blushed much to Selemon's amusement.

"Not that you need worry on that account. My preference is for someone darker."

"No... I... um... won't... worry then..." said Docky, reddening deeper still, not seeming to appreciate Selemon's rare honesty.

-oAo-

"You... you keep him away from me!" And Joherner pointed at Clada and pushed himself tight into the corner of the bed. And even naked, Joherner was impressively mean and menacing.

In case he escaped, Seldric wouldn't allow him clothes, and now the guy had fully recovered, even the sheets had been removed. You could fucking well escape in a sheet wrapped as a toga. Seldric supposed they could have just tied him up, but somehow, with the favour they'd asked him, it didn't seem in the spirit of things. And Jaleen had asked them not to. And Joherner had promised he wouldn't try to escape. So there had to be trust here.

But the guy still wasn't going to get any fucking clothes.

"Clada. Back off," warned Seldric.

"I weren't going to do anything!" pouted Clada, walking back towards the door, sulking by the frame.

"And... and that's my watch! And my wristband and dogtags," said Joherner, still at Clada. "And those are my boots!" indignant at Toplon too.

"Well, at least, there's little wrong with your memory, John Sheppard," observed Toplon, amused, folding his arms and leaning up against the wall with no intention of handing over the boots, though Clada begrudgingly removed his three items and threw them on the bed.

"I thought we decided his name was Joherner, Jo for short!" complained Horrie, also by the door. Nobody ever told him anything.

"Yeah, and it's still going to be fucking Joherner," said Seldric. "If anyone comes looking, we can say we've never heard of John Sheppard, right!"

Joherner, still crouched in his corner, arms wrapped round his legs and lower anatomy as best he could but failing, bit his lip at that, and then seemed to push the thought aside.

"You've got that information?"

"Yeah," and Seldric sighed, because this wasn't going to be easy, not straightforward easy, and sometimes he wished they could just drop this idea and sell Joherner off, body parts, slave... didn't matter which, because they were hitting one hurdle after another. "We've found your Rodney McKay for you." Their part of the bargain.

"Nothing of Kelsoe?" Now why would Joherner still want to find _him_? This Kelsoe was a madman and had left Joherner to die in the desert. Philan... philanthro... the kindness of his fucking heart? Perhaps there was more to Joherner's story than he was letting on.

"It's like he's disappeared off the face of the planet. No sign of him about the streets anyhow," shrugged Horrie. And yeah, Joherner seemed genuinely concerned about that.

"McKay? Tell me where McKay is."

"He turned up in the Lady's Day market," explained Horrie.

"What?" Puzzled. "Buying-"

"No. As goods. It's where ladies can buy men for-" began Clada.

"Escort duties," finished Toplon. Not of Madacran, he was kinda more sensitive as to how other worlds viewed... matters of the flesh.

But Joherner had understood Clada completely. He'd been told Madacran had slaves. He'd been told that Jaleen was a particular kind of slave. That was one helluva alarm tensing up his face.

"You're kidding me... We've got to free him. You know who bought him? Get me some clothes." And he shuffled quickly to the edge of the bed, but hesitated before standing, glancing over to Clada.

"We can't fucking free him," said Seldric, annoyed like shit that Joherner was giving out the orders here.

"Well, you're going to have to_ try_ if you want out of here. I told you... it's only him who can fix the jumper."

"That's what _you _say," murmured Horrie.

"I can't fix the jumper. I told you that. I'm just the pilot."

"And it's only your word that it needs fixing in the first place!"

"We were stuck in the desert. You think we _planned_ to park there for the sheer hell of it?"

"Hey... hey... hey..." said Toplon, pushing off from the wall. "This achieves little-"

"Yeah, and wastes time! Someone fetch me some clothes!" Joherner was getting pissed off angry. Well, he wasn't the only one.

"You're not fucking listening, are you?! I said we can't fucking free him! It's fucking impossible to rescue him!" shouted back Seldric.

And yeah, that got the guy's attention. Finally. But what sort of big shot did he think he was anyhow? Seldric was in charge here. Seldric got to decide when he got his clothes.

"Nothing is impossible," Joherner said deliberately. Was the guy stubborn or what? Seldric guessed that's why he'd survived so long in the desert.

"No. This is," said Horrie.

"Most definitely," said Toplon.

"What he said," said Clada, because it sounded good.

There was silence in the room.

"Someone gonna explain or what?" said Joherner, looking at them all.

"He was sold as a slave to the wife of Dochelimar Selemon."

"Wife?" And that set him thinking a little... and then he was back again. "We still set him loose. Bring me my _damn_ clothes!"

"We told you... you can't just do that," said Clada.

"To simply free him, really isn't so straightforward," said Toplon.

"Selemon is the deputy leader of the Senate," said Horrie.

"Senate? Your... government?"

"Yeah, so, he's a fucking bigwig. So you can't just walk in and say, 'can we have our Rodney Mackay back, please?' You can't get within fucking ten thousand units of his place. There's a whole battalion of guards surrounding his villa. It's double walled. The gates twenty units thick."

The guy frowned at this. Thought again. Looked at every one of them. "What weapons do you have?" He really wasn't about to give up on this, was he?

"Listen! Will you? You can't fucking free him! You need a whole fucking army to free him! Counting now... one... two... three... four... five... You can't go up against Selemon's with _five_ men. The fucking desert sun really cooked your fucking brains?"

"I'll do it myself then, if you won't. Now will someone get me some clothes! And I'll need all your guns."

"Now, hold on a minute-"

"You can help or not, but don't you dare try and stop me! Fetch me some clothes!" Joherner was really yelling now.

"Clothes for a ride out of here? Suits me, Seldric..." and Horrie shrugged, unmoved by it all.

"But, comrades... Seldric... Horrie... Clada," Toplon was addressing them each in turn, "if John Sheppard should fail, and it is very likely that he will, unaided, if he should get himself killed or captured in what appears to be a rather foolhardy attempt at heroism to save his friend, there goes our opportunity to leave this planet. If we should assist him, however, then, he at least has some chance of success."

"Then we're all going to get fucking killed! How do you figure that's a good thing?" demanded an incredulous Seldric. What was the point of brains, if Toplon couldn't work that one out?

"Just give him the clothes, Toplon. If he messes up, we'll still have the jumper to salvage and you can still save up for passage," muttered Horrie, all for saving his skin.

"We're... we're not..._ soldiers_, Joherner," said Clada, shuffling with his feet, bashfully looking at the floor. Clada fucking bashful? "You are... you can hear that you are. We'd go with you, but I don't think we'd be much good. There's just not enough of us... and... we're... not soldiers..."

"We're not going!" Seldric could sense Toplon was up for helping. It was always the case when a woman got involved. Warp your fucking head, they do. And Clada was nearly there. Him and his dark-haired guys. "I'm boss, ain't I? Last I checked, I was still fucking boss! It's me that gets the final say. Always!"

Then how come they all ended up, heads down, a gun apiece, peering over a dirt hillock, facing the Selemon residence?

-oAo-


	5. Chapter 5

Madacran

Chapter Five 

He'd been gone twenty minutes and still hadn't made it round the perimeter walls, scouting along narrow back lanes that separated the Selemon villa from others in the neighbourhood. The place, though, didn't come into Sheppard's definition of a villa – it was a palace. This Selemon certainly wasn't into modesty.

Outside walls. Ten feet high. That wouldn't pose that much of problem with someone to hoist him over. And not embedded with glass or wire like back on Earth. No surveillance cameras either. Well, none that he could see. He supposed he shouldn't go around assuming that tech hadn't found its way to Madacran. Seldric and co were well armed with Travellers' guns, after all.

But Madacran, at least, Lokom Street, Upper Madacran City was as Roman a place as he could imagine. Clean white buildings that glared in the sun and made him wish for his shades, all roofed with russet coloured tiles. Mosaics for décor. Wooden shuttered windows. Gardens bursting with bright bold shades of blossoms, ornamented extravagantly with statues, urns and rippling fountains. And what slaves or occupants he'd spotted, were dressed in either tunics or white robes, with sandals. Guards, soldiers were geared out as full centurions. He'd shaken his head more than once, wondering if he were dreaming…

Jaleen had told him, though, that for Lower Madacran, it was a different story. Slums. Where freed slaves lived. Or those so poverty-stricken, they were forced into indentured labour for a pittance. Land ownership on Madacran lay solely in the hands of the few. Those hard-up Madacrans could never even support themselves on anything resembling even subsistence living. Poor health and living conditions were their lot in life. When the wind lay the wrong way, you could smell the stench of bad drains from Jaleen's quarters.

It made him angry, made him think of his own privileged upbringing, and he wondered if he hadn't become a pilot, what sort of career he might have followed. If he freed Rodney, if they could find Kelsoe and get him to the care he needed, if they made it back to Atlantis, he'd like to return here and try and sort things out. But that was a whole loada 'if's'.

Sheppard continued to follow round the walls sussing out the security. He hadn't met much by way of organised patrols on the outside, so this Seldric guy had been exaggerating the villa's protection. He figured that the small wicket gates set at regular intervals were probably guarded on the inside and passing by one, he'd heard male voices, so that pretty much confirmed it. He still had no idea of guard numbers, however.

But what if Seldric were right and Rodney couldn't be rescued? It seemed weird, that Rodney was, at this very moment, somewhere over this wall. And a slave… to a... lady? Any other time, that might have raised a smile. Perhaps soon, they'd be lucky enough to look back on this, and it'd be payback time for all those Kirk jokes.

And what would Sheppard do if he couldn't free Rodney? Find some passing Travellers' ship, hitch a ride and hope that one day he'd eventually beach up on Atlantis and get help? Would this Seldric let him go? He'd been warned, one false move and it was curtains. Toplon, he remembered with a wince, dealt in body parts...

Sheppard stopped suddenly. What if... what if he rescued Rodney but they were still stuck here? Rodney had said the jumper couldn't be fixed. No, that could never happen. Seldric had an outhouse full of Travellers' spares. Rodney just needed Sheppard to egg him on, encouragement, get him in the right frame of mind. It'd always worked that way for them in the past. He'd got to stop this doubting.

And he walked on again, more determined than ever. But he wished the future was a whole lot clearer than this. His whole situation on Madacran wasn't that far removed from that time when he'd passed through the time dilation field. Six months trapped on Teer's world, and they'd been nothing he could do about it. Six months of waiting for rescue, hoping for rescue. Six months of being unable to settle down with Teer's people. It just wasn't in him to accept a bad situation when something could be done to put it right. He guessed that's why he always dived in doing what appeared to be suicidal stuff. The possibility of dying attempting to find Rodney wasn't half as terrifying as the possibility of a life beyond his control.

Coming up to the main front entrance of the villa, the gate opened to admit food being delivered by cart and trowsy and Sheppard was able to catch a brief glimpse inside. He counted about a half-dozen guards hanging around, and noted a second gate set in the walls of inner buildings. He reckoned it led onto a courtyard and considering the scale of the place, there were probably even more courtyards beyond that. All windows faced inwards. Entrance into the villa proper would have to be through that second gate.

He studied things for as long as he dared, squinting against mid afternoon sun, trying to appear casual, like someone out for a stroll, all too aware he wasn't exactly cutting it if a guard did happen to give him a good hard look. He was perspiring more than he would have liked, over-dressed in beige linen leggings and a tunic. The dress of a craftsmen, he'd been told but no way was he going to wear the tunic alone even if it was cooler in this heat. He was the only person about the deserted street and that was suspicious enough too. Siesta hadn't finished and even dogs lay panting or sleeping in the scant shade of the occasional aurora tree whose branches draped over the villa walls.

The trees would be his way in, and if he'd been in charge of security, the branches would have been lopped long ago. Naturally, he was glad for the oversight.

Having reached the main street again, he crossed it briskly, over to what appeared to be a small olive grove sloping up from the road. Trowsies grazed lazily beneath silvery branches, shielded from the worst of the sun. Over a small hillock, and he was in sight of the other four waiting, idly lying on their backs, dozing. Sheppard had told them to stay hidden and to keep quiet but overheard Seldric, loud and clear.

"That's it... he's a dead 'un... let's fucking get out of here..." But Clada, chewing on a grass stalk, pulled at his arm to stop him getting to his feet, indicating that Sheppard had returned just on the agreed deadline. Sheppard joined them, flinging himself down, sending up a cloud of dust, which set Seldric choking.

"I can't be fucking dealing with this... all this holing up like some fucking thief is gonna give me a fucking heart attack, " Seldric spluttered out. Sheppard gave him an odd look. What he'd heard from Jaleen, all Seldric had ever done was to 'hole up like a thief'.

"Well? You gonna fucking tell us or not?"

"Wait till nightfall."

And, he needed a diversion.

-oAo-

Meria swept into Selemon's study. No pleasantries. Though, considered Selemon, those had been replaced by biting sarcasm years ago.

She was angry. Undeniably so.

Little daunted, he stood up from his place behind his desk, calm and polite, offering her a chair, amused by her refusal to sit, as if he would be bothered one way or the other.

She pointed at him with a ring-tight plump finger madly waggling. Her eyes blazed with fury, eyes, which in Selemon's opinion seemed even more wrinkled and sagging than usual. Why ladies could ever believe that a heavy coating of the eye dusting would make them more sexually appealing, he could never understand. Especially when it became smudged so, in the passion of temper and tantrums. A toss of her head loosened a strand of her long dyed hair from its jewel encrusted clip, and with her other hand on her hip, she seemed almost… theatrical... comical even. Certainly, she was degrading herself. How fortunate it was that there were no servants present. No gentlewoman should be seen thus.

"You keep your filthy hands off him!" she screeched "You and your moton drugs! Don't you think I don't know what goes on in that secret room of yours?"

"Of whom are we talking, Meria dear?" he asked sweetly, feigning ignorance.

"Don't! Don't speak that way!" Yes. He knew how he infuriated her whenever she came to his apartments in her quarrelsome mood.

"Jealous, Meria, my love?"

"He's mine!"

"I simply asked for secretarial duties. And for technical advice. Please rest assured, those are my only intentions. I make no other claim on Docky's time. He is not... agreeable in looks to me. I believed you were acquiescent in this? That you permitted Docky leave to attend to me? Then you have changed your mind perhaps?"

She said nothing, catching breath, without a doubt, in preparation for the next onslaught.

"It matters little," resumed Selemon. "He is not _yours_, as you say. All things are ultimately mine." Yes, indeed, they were. Or... about to be... What a most appropriate thing to say! "And from my dear beloved wife, I expect some semblance of devotion and not this brawling of a market traders' spouse. If you cannot talk civilly, then, please leave."

"And if I choose not to?" And she flounced a circle around the room. "Oh, it will be just like the little boy who-"

Fury had taken him and he swiftly moved over to her, seizing her by the throat, tightening his grip there... _Mama... her face... her words... 'you are like a child, Selemon'... Mama's face as he strangled her. _He released Meria. This display was beneath him. And this was not the same as then...

She held her hands at her neck, rubbing the soreness there, her hatred, her invective stronger than ever.

"Oh, yes! Just like the little boy who couldn't get his own way! You would kill me too?!" And he always wondered why his wife listened to rumours. Of course, the rumours were true. "You know where my money would go?!" she shrieked at him.

With no heir, straight back to her family.

"I could change that law," he said quietly. Soon, he was certain that he could.

"You would lose the backing of the Senate overnight!" And she was right, bless her. Inheritance laws were so entrenched in Madacran society it would be seen as sacrilegious.

And then she understood... by his expression that he did little to hide.

"You would kill them too? You would, wouldn't you? Selemon? Docky?" Ah, she remembered... "What have you become?" She gasped. Horrified.

He took her firmly by the wrists and breathed hard and furious into her face. "Become? I have not changed. As you say, I am no different to that little boy." Who grew to youth-hood, who strangled his own mother... who poisoned his brother...

"Please... you're hurting me..." she whimpered, attempting to turn away, squirming to escape his grasp.

"Meria dear, this is nothing. You know that. Now, be a good girl and return to your new pet." He let her go and she pitifully rubbed her wrists, looking at him with eyes full of fear. Rightly so. He so wished to finish what he had begun, to squeeze all life out of her, but he could not. The time was not right and timing should always be so perfect. "And Meria? Consider yourself confined to your quarters. I shall appoint you a guard. As from tonight-"

"Selemon..."

"Now go." And he meant that as unkindly as he said it.

-oAo-

A single oil lamp hung on the gatepost. Its flame fluttering in the breeze. The only noise heard. Till a taros bird shrilled out a call. Fuck! It was going to give them all away. Guards' voices raised. That stopped as suddenly as the bird. Clada must have wrung its neck.

And they waited.

Thendos had been chosen. No. Fuck. Thendos had appointed himself more like. So what if he was the nephew twice fucking removed of Coppron? Did that really make him a better shot than Toplon? And what was Toplon fucking doing anyway? Going over the wall with Joherner? Though true, they needed to watch him. If Joherner could come up with this sort of plan, then, what other plan was he concocting up in that head of his? A fucking double cross sort of plan, that's what.

They waited for the signal.

Rent-a-crowd, Joherner had said. What the hell was that? Seen it done in a... movie? And what the hell was that too? Something about beverly. And that is? Hills, Seldric knew... But cop? What was fucking one of those? Joherner had been making no sense.

'There has to be somewhere... somewhere where guys meet... guys that aren't happy with things... a tavern... an inn... take me there...'

'Will you quit with giving the orders?!'

'Then you organise it. I need a diversion. A crowd out front ought to do it. Protesters. You know what protesters are?'

'You mean to start a riot?'

'If it helps, yeah...' and the look on Joherner's face... If all else failed, then at least a stand would be made. He was fucking crazy and angry all rolled into one. The worst kind.

Coppron. Coppron was a wanted man. Coppron ran a sort of underground of dissidents. That... wait for it... posted leaflets and painted graffiti on walls. Like that was scary! In Lower Madacran. Right slap bang in the middle of the slums. In the maze of back streets. But he moved around a lot. Different locations to avoid arrest. Coppron was their man...

'But it'd take a week to track him down.'

'I can't wait that long.'

And Joherner had insisted they take him to a tavern... and he did it... as bold as fucking brass... asked everyone there to meet in front of Selemon's house at dark... The guy knew about... movies... but had he never fucking heard of fucking guards? He was alert though. Anyone in that room could have reported him... no... he fucking _impressed _them, didn't he?... Had them eating out of his fucking hand with all his fine talk of understanding what they were all going through... well, all this talk... fucking got Coppron's attention... Coppron's grape vine... Coppron was with them in ten minutes flat... and you'd think Coppron would have joined the list of guys who didn't like Joherner giving out the fucking orders... but no... Coppron actually _liked _the guy... patted him on the back all nice and friendly like... and could get him a hundred men easy... all prepared to run the risk of getting caught... because it was all one up in the face of one Dochelimar Selemon!... and there was all those nice fancy speeches... and it was time they had done something like this... time to make a stand... and all they'd needed was the arrival of Joherner... and Joherner was their fucking hero... and Joherner was going to be remembered always... Up the fucking revolution!

The signal. A whistle. The stone was thrown. The light went out. And Seldric watched Madacran history being made.

-oAo-

Ronon was a good shot. This Toplon guy was at least his equal.

And he surprised Sheppard how agile he was for his age. With a cupped hand, he'd hoisted Sheppard up to the top of the wall, and in turn, Sheppard, careful to keep his balance on the tiles there, leant down and heaved Toplon to his side. No problems with the noise they made scrabbling up the wall. The shouting and yelling from the crowd outside the main gate soon drowned all that. And they were nicely hidden in the branches of the aurora tree.

Sheppard touched Toplon's arm in warning, and they both froze a moment, allowing a couple of guards to pass by beneath them, running in the direction of all the commotion. Then Sheppard nodded, and he and Toplon aimed, taking out a half dozen of the porcelain lamps on the far walls. Seldric, mistrust written all over his face, had reluctantly lent Sheppard his Travellers' gun.

Allowing a few seconds for their eyes to become accustomed to the reduced light and to double check that no one had been alerted to the shattering of the lamps, they scrambled down the tree. Once on the ground, Sheppard took the lead and the two of them, crouching low, padded close to the shadows of the inner wall, quickly making their way round to the main gate.

So far, so good.

As expected, extra guards had been called from the barracks sited at the back of the villa to see to the unrest out front. Some twenty or so of these formed a protective line across the entrance of the first gate, using shields against a barrage of stones, rotten veg, even trowsy turds. A couple of what appeared to be officers peeked out, keeping tabs on the situation. Groups of other soldiers stood around waiting for further orders in case things got out of hand. All faces were turned towards the racket coming in from the street. The diversion had worked and no one noticed Sheppard and Toplon slipping through the unguarded inner gate behind them.

Coppron had found someone who knew the lay out of the Selemon villa and Sheppard remembered the direction for Lady Meria's quarters from the map drawn for him in the sawdust of the tavern's floor.

If he'd gotten it right, a couple of courtyards now faced them. These were all too well lit for Sheppard's liking but the lamps here were large reed beacon-like torches and there was no way to easily douse them. Besides, plunging these living areas into darkness would only attract attention and suspicion.

Corridors, much like monastery cloisters, ran round the perimeter of the courtyards, and their fancy columns, their alcoves set with statues, and their deep doorways, concealed the two men as they made their way forward.

And they soon needed somewhere to hide.

A door opposite was suddenly thrown open and Sheppard pulled Toplon hard back against the wall. It seemed like minutes before Sheppard could breathe easy again, before he could be certain these newcomers didn't spell trouble.

What appeared to be a group of toga'd gents and ladies made their way over to a central fountain and seemed happy to stand there, spectators, craning their necks to gain a better view through the archway back to the noise at the front gate but none daring to move away from this place of safety. Their chat, a mix of curious and scared and amused. Some held wine goblets.

"Seems like we interrupted their evening dinner," whispered Toplon dryly, from the semi-darkness at Sheppard's side. "So glad we could provide them with tonight's entertainment, no?"

Exactly how Sheppard saw it, but he didn't reply. He put a finger to his lips and beckoned for Toplon to follow. The guy was good. No military training, but understanding exactly what was required, and yeah, it helped having him along...

They entered a third smaller courtyard. The air seemed to fall still and quiet, with the shouting from the mob now distant. A single light broke through the virtual darkness, coming from an archway that led to a corridor to Meria's quarters. Sheppard happened to glance up... a starlit night…

Of course, Rodney might not be here. He might spend his nights in the slave's quarters, in which case, they had a maze of outer buildings and alleyways to get through yet. And the diversion couldn't last forever.

At the entrance to the corridor, he hesitated and held up a hand for Toplon to stop. With the comparative silence of this area, he was aware now of his heart pounding loud in his ears, and aware how tight his body had become with tension. The sound of muffled conversation reached them from a room up ahead. A door opened a slit, sending out a bar of light across the mosaic floor and the facing wall, and the two of them jerked back into the shadows.

A woman's voice... and she was crying. A man's voice... Rodney... Sheppard was sure of it.

He was reluctant though to move on, however much he wanted to. They'd been lucky so far not to come across any guards in the courtyards. To move down this corridor was cutting off their retreat if any did happen to show their faces. It could prove to be a dead end… literally. And he hated the idea of leaving Toplon alone as lookout.

"I'll check it out... won't be long... no... honest… soon… tickling… " said Rodney_ giggling._ Sheppard had _heard_ that right?

And there was Rodney backing out into the corridor. Blowing a kiss to whoever was in the room.

Rodney turned and stared at Sheppard. Yeah, it had to be like seeing Sheppard's ghost.

And Sheppard looked Rodney down and up, taking in the bare legs, the tunic, worn so crookedly it must have only just been thrown on in one minute flat, taking in the way the happiest of expressions had melted in one second flat. Here was a guy who just didn't want or need rescuing.

"Sheppard… " Rodney swallowed and then seemed to remember that he actually had vocal chords. "You're... you're alive!"

"Yeah... yeah... I am..." and Sheppard looked himself down and up too, "and I'd like to stay that way. We have to leave." And since Rodney looked as if he had no intention of budging from the spot, he added, "Like, _now_, would be a good idea?"

"Who is it, Docky, my love?" came the female voice from inside the room. Sniffing audibly and then crying some more.

"Just one of the guards, dear... be back in a moment... promise, honeybuns..." and Rodney abruptly took Sheppard by the elbow and marched him out into the courtyard. Toplon followed and even in the dim light, Sheppard could see Toplon's damned smirk.

"Go and keep watch... over there!" glared Sheppard, suddenly feeling very pissed with him.

"Certainly, Jo." replied Toplon, with the unmistakable edge of a tease in his voice.

"Jo?" asked Rodney.

"Docky? Honeybuns?" retorted Sheppard.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. It's not important," said Rodney, snapping his fingers. "What are you doing here? Not that I'm not pleased to see you." Well, Sheppard had begun to wonder.

"What... what am I doing here? I thought it might be obvious! I had a rescue in mind. Now, will you come..." and it was Sheppard's turn to take Rodney by the elbow and drag him along a couple of yards.

"Whoa whoa whoa," and Rodney put on the brakes and pulled his arm free.

"I can't... I can't leave Meria... she's all upset... her husband's been mean to her," and he sorta wistfully gazed back the way they'd just come.

"Rodney!"

Rodney looked at him, startled. As he always did when Sheppard got all exasperated with him and threatened him that way.

"What's the point, Sheppard?"

"What?" Sheppard hissed. He just wasn't hearing this. They should have been out of that front gate ninety seconds ago.

"What's the point? You rescue me and then what? There's no way off this planet. I couldn't fix the jumper. Atlantis has no idea where we are. You rescue me... well, how and who's going to rescue _us_? Face it, Sheppard, we're not leaving here... ever... We're stuck here on Madacran for the rest of our natural. Better make the best of it-"

"Best? I don't believe you! You want to _stay_?! To actually stay as... as... as... a sex-" And Rodney placed a hand over Sheppard's mouth suddenly, which kinda surprised him.

"No... no... you've got it all wrong... it's not like that at all!"

Sheppard could do pissed with Rodney too and angrily pushed the hand away from his face. "Oh, so now you're going to tell me that you're in _love_... is that it?!"

They were making far too much noise. They weren't being nearly careful enough. They were going to wake up some more guards sooner or later. He tried keeping his voice to a whisper. A _loud_ whisper, but it wasn't easy.

"You don't give up, you hear? Never. We'll get rescued eventually. You know that. Or you can fix the jumper. These guys I'm with, they scavenge spare parts from wrecked Travellers' ships. They'll help." It wasn't all lost. He couldn't believe it was all lost. He wasn't going to believe they could never get back to Atlantis. And hadn't he always pulled Rodney up from the depths before? "We are so not having this conversation. You're coming because an awful lot of guys have gone to an awful lot of trouble to get you out of here."

And Sheppard grabbed the front of Rodney's tunic, turned, yanking Rodney after him-

Crap.

He froze.

A drawn sword.

At his chest.

Toplon was instantly out of the shadows with a knife, slitting the guard's throat from behind, catching him in his arms as the soldier fell, hauling the body over to near by shrubs. Calmly. Methodically. Like he'd been doing this thing for years. And Sheppard breathed out again. Yeah, it was really useful having that guy along.

"Thanks," Sheppard offered as Toplon wiped his blade down his tunic.

"My pleasure, Jo."

"You see! You see! We're all going to get killed just trying to get out of here!" wailed Rodney, flapping his arms around.

"It'll be ok," but he had to admit that arguing with Rodney had meant they'd probably lost those crucial important minutes.

All three looked towards the second courtyard as sudden closer shouting rang out. No. Not so much shouting… as screaming. And sounds of, echoes of feet running. The clamour of fighting as protesters took on the guards.

This hadn't been the plan. Obviously Coppron had allowed the euphoria to take over, had allowed his supporters, carrying only cudgels and knives or anything they could lift from dead soldiers, to take the villa. Arm to arm combat was spilling over to their direction. Torches were being ripped from walls and thrown high onto the roofs of outbuildings, catching at timbers in an instant, igniting with a loud whumphing noise, casting yellow light across the whole villa. They'd have to battle their way through this lot, or…

"Is there a back entrance out of here?" he hollered above the din to Rodney, now white faced, eyes wide with alarm.

"Meria... have to get back to Meria... " panicked Rodney, choking on the thick smoke already billowing down.

But it was all too late... all too damned late...

The wave of fighting hit them and there was nothing for it but to push Rodney to one side and to start firing the gun, hoping he didn't hit any of Coppron's men, aiming only at feet, aiming simply to maintain a safe space around Rodney. And Toplon had followed suit. And everything suddenly got messy. Blood and bodies and battle cries and death cries and shields and swords clanging and guns sounding off. The noise was getting horrendous. Three or four rebels climbed up on a roof and began ripping off tiles. Hurling them down on guards and flagstones alike. Smoke and sparks from the blazing roof thickly filled the air. Soldiers and protesters appeared as macabre shadows on walls.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sheppard glimpsed a whole load of re-inforcements joining in, coming from the rear of the villa... no escape there either... and he could make out Horrie... and Clada... and Seldric... they were all here.... fighting with both swords and guns at Toplon's side... a team then... but Rodney, unarmed, was soon going to get hurt...

"Go! Rodney! Go! Get inside!" It was all he was gonna be able to do... protect Rodney's back... and then his gun jammed... and he scooped up an abandoned sword... and slashed at a guard who was suddenly in his face... across the guy's sword arm… severing it… don't think… don't think… and then another guard... swinging it into the man's jaw... feeling the blade jar on bone and helmet... hating the bloodied look before the guard fell to the ground... this wasn't Zorro stuff... this was pure freaking murder... and then... he saw Kelsoe... Kelsoe as a centurion... How?... lining up a dozen guards... Kelsoe in command... Kelsoe firing with his handgun... Kelsoe ordering the guards to advance on the crowd... and they were massacring everyone in their wake... and Sheppard spun round to instinctively check on Rodney... taking down another of the guards with an upward thrust into the man's belly... feeling flesh soft and sticky at his wrists... Rodney... Rodney there... half a courtyard away... caught up in his own struggle with protesters trying to flee down Meria's corridor... and Clada, Horrie and Seldric were with him trying to stop him... had misunderstood that Sheppard had wanted Rodney to return to the safety of Meria... all of them directly in line with the advancing guard... And Clada was down, screaming.

Rodney...

And Sheppard ran...

-oAo-

Rapid gunfire all around.

And Kelsoe was ordering the guards to advance. Meria was crying out Rodney's name. And hands... bloodied hands pushed Rodney from the archway... grabbing at his tunic... "You're coming with us!"

"No! No!"

Rodney squirmed in the hands. Twisted free of the hands. Turned to run. But where? Noise. Confusion. Gunfire. Smoke. Hands that hacked down with swords. Shields that banged. Armour that caught the light of the blazing roof. Bodies with staring eyes. Blood slipping at his sandals. A nightmare of screaming.

Suddenly John… Jo in front of him.

Suddenly, John's body jerked.

And Rodney just stood there… and caught John in his arms before he fell.

And John smiled briefly. Before the blood gurgled at his lips. And the smile faded. And something went out of his eyes. And he went limp and heavy.

And someone was screaming because he'd been shot in the knee. And there were bodies all round. And Kelsoe continued his advance, leaving all this carnage behind him.

And Jo was dying. No. Jo was dead. In Rodney's arms.

-oAo-


	6. Chapter 6

Madacran

Chapter Six

"Why didn't you bring Horrie?" Because Horrie... because Horrie he'd been with... since... since... and Seldric couldn't comprehend life without Horrie... Horrie was like his right fucking hand... but Horrie had been sliced up bad... his guts coiled in his hands... he was as good as dead... and Seldric remembered screaming at Toplon to carry Horrie.

"Because Horrie wouldn't get us off Madacran." Well, Toplon was nothing but fucking honest.

"You selfish bastard," sighed Seldric, with little energy to push it further, letting his body slowly slide down the wall, trying to catch breath, closing his eyes, attempting to rest his aching head and muscles, wincing at his many cuts and bruises. He couldn't fucking recall ever being this fucking tired.

They'd found a dark alley to rest in, once they were certain they'd thrown off the guards. Yelling reached them from some distant street. Some poor bugger had gotten himself caught, executed there and then, or saved for something more public tomorrow. Today. Whatever.

It was quiet here. Even with the noises of the attack on the villa still ringing in his ears. It was quiet here with the occasional birdsong and dog bark to announce the pale dawn bleaching the indigo sky. Even Seldric could be poetic. Death... death had to do that to a guy... making you appreciate stuff... glad to be alive...

"You believe in a god? In a heaven, Toplon?" Seldric said with a sniff, and then coughed, his lungs and nostrils still clogged with the smoke and stench of the fight. He looked across the alley to where Clada lay, who'd died only a minute earlier, bleeding out his life from the wound to his knee.

Toplon was busy in the darkness. The sound of ripping cloth coming from the shadows. He's wasting his fucking time, thought Seldric.

"A god? Once... no... Now? Well, now, the gods shows promise..."

"Because of Jo? You really are a selfish bastard. But we didn't get this Rodney McKay..." He'd been wrenched from them by guards and taken into the main part of the villa.

"We'll get another chance."

"You believe that?"

"I believe that if you believe in a god, then you believe in anything."

"We've started a revolution tonight. You might not even need to leave Madacran. Things might get better," mused Seldric. "We've shown them… we've shown them, we're not putting up with things anymore." Hell, he was starting to sound like Coppron.

Toplon stood. A sign it was time to go. And he was a mess. Covered in blood too.

"He should be dead," remarked Seldric, wearily standing to help, fighting the draining fatigue that told him to just fucking go to sleep. It'd be a helluva lot easier. "He took a sword in the lung, didn't he?"

"He should be dead, yes. Must be some residual healing of Jaleen's."

And if Seldric didn't believe in a god, then he sure as hell believed in fate. Why wasn't Horrie alive? Why not Clada? A miracle. Another fucking miracle? The man must have been born throwing fucking sixes. A second time and this Joherner still lived, wheezing and moaning as they hauled him up by his arms and dragged him out of the alley.

-oAo-

Jaleen could not sleep, laying still and tense in her bed, listening to every unfamiliar noise of the night. The calling. The shouting. The sounds of running footsteps in the street. She understood it's meaning. That the guards were seeking out the protesters. That perhaps all had failed. That there had been bloodshed, which would not find an end now that it had begun. That perhaps she might even now be a widow. She sat up and leaned across to the window, pushed opened the shutters, and watched the dawn paint colour into the day. Shivering as she waited, certain there would be many requiring her assistance before the sun rose fully.

A sudden bang at the door. She turned sharply as it was flung open. Toplon. Seldric. Carrying the injured Joherner. She was up in an instant, pulling the covers off the bed, a pang of alarm strong inside as they shuffled across the floor with their burden and hurriedly laid him stomach down, head turned to the room. Fear in that instant at his laboured breathing, at the sight of so much blood at the wound on his back, at his face creased with pain though he slept.

"Jaleen," was all the breathless Toplon could say, appealing to her. And even Seldric held his peace, eyes downcast.

"Was it worth it, Toplon?" she asked. "Now leave..." For she preferred not to be watched in her healing.

Toplon hesitated at the door as Seldric skulked past him. "Rodney McKay still lives and remains in the Selemon villa." It justified little. The sacrifice of life.

"Go! At the present, I am only concerned with Joherner."

"I do it all for you, Jaleen," apologised Toplon with all sincerity.

"I know," she said quietly, staring down at the man on the bed, not meeting Toplon's eye.

And he left.

Her own deep breaths to calm her thoughts before she could proceed.

She had to be single minded in this. Blood still visibly oozed from the deep slash between lower ribs on the right hand side and gurgled at his lips with every slow gasp. She quickly removed the dressings that Toplon had fashioned out Joherner's own tunic and a placed a palm down over the cut and closed her eyes…

…Feeling the warmth of life there still. Feeling the heart beat slow. Grateful for both. And in one second... Calling up that essence deep within her... feeling the alliance of her heart with his... demanding that they both beat as one... pulling, pulling him back to life... seeing the sundered mesh of cell and tissue... as some chasm in broken rock... seeing flesh and earth as one also... calling forces deep within the world to channel through her... to recognize the form beneath her hand as both son and part of total... she felt a frown... there was blood on his hands... he had been responsible for death in others... the same block as the last time she'd healed him... she felt the forces recede... saw a tide of an ocean withdraw aid... no... no... see... see... a good man... he is a good man… images of other deeds... do not judge... do not judge... but the balance is so fine... he deserves this... love... love... her own love.... he deserves this... and what of Toplon, her husband?... no... do not judge... _I_ deserve this... and the tide rushed in once more... the forces pulling, pulling to realign those delicate links once more... to mend... to mend... the body becoming whole once more...

She slowly withdrew her right hand and opened her eyes, dazed, exhausted, swaying even, holding the side of the bed to steady herself. The wound had gone and Joherner slept peacefully now. She checked his breathing, observing the rise and fall of his shoulders... perhaps a moment longer than she should. The strong muscles there… his arms and legs sprawled across the bed... strength in the way the back curved downwards... and she reached with her clean left hand and touched his lips with her fingers, touched and enjoyed the feel of his hair... a wish at her own lips, that he would be harmed no more... and he was oblivious...

And though the blood was cleared from his lungs and mouth, his face and body were still smeared with red. She prepared to wash him again, as before, pouring water from a jug at the sink and picking up cloths. Only... this wasn't the same as the last time.

She pulled off his sandals and then... hesitated at removing the leggings that he chose to wear, scolding herself, telling herself that this was simply a necessary task to remove the heavily stained clothing, that she was wife to Toplon, that she was concubine to Lord Recito, that she should clear her mind of all these thoughts, that Joherner was far from well. And, so as not to wake him, she gently reached and sought for the ties at the waistband beneath his stomach... aware of the pelvic bone pressing into her wrists as she worked to untie the knot... aware of the fine hairs there brushing up against her fingers... and slipped down the leggings... his buttocks... his thighs...

And she stood... backing off from the bed... a warming tightening deep inside... her breathing and pulse rapid... her throat dry... this couldn't be... she knew how to please men... her empathy with all things had given her this skill... but... she had never before felt this way...

She must have disturbed him for he moved an arm, murmured and shifted his head slightly. She held her breath, watching his thick dark hair for more movement, hoping he would return to sleep.

"Jaleen?" His voice came weak and she trembled at its sound.

"Joherner." She forced control into her voice and pushed herself to approach the bed once more.

"You healed me again?" And he twisted his body slightly, trying to turn to focus on her, collapsing on the bed with the effort. "Hell... that wasn't such a good idea... I need to sleep, right?"

"Yes, Joherner." She could hardly speak, overwhelmed by the glimpse she'd caught of his chest and hips.

"It's John," he said wearily. And then closed his eyes and went quiet, before asking, as an afterthought, slurring his speech. "Rodney... Do you... do you know what happened to Rodney?"

With effort, she pulled herself together. "You must not worry. He is safe but remains still in Selemon's villa."

Joherner muttered something inaudible in reply, breathing down into the mattress, fighting the drift back to dreams. He shivered, the slight tremors in the muscles of his back, drawing her attention to his body once more and she stood there transfixed, immobile with this new emotion, unable even to gather up the covers for him. He struggled to lift his head, to hold it there, to gaze blearily over his shoulder, taking in the basin resting on the bed, taking in his nakedness, taking in all the bloodstains... before sinking his head down onto the bed again, losing the battle to keep his eyes open.

"You know... I can... I can get myself cleaned up... you... you don't have to do this... you're... not... my... slave..." and he finally gave in and slept... and she could feel the thought... you're what I fight for... and at that point of tumbling into unconsciousness... another image... of a woman buried in a grave of rocks... of regret...

Do not judge... do not judge... he deserves this... he deserves to live... just as she deserved someone who was worthy of her...

-oAo-

"Well, well, Docky, what do you think of all this, eh?" asked Selemon, indicating the charred rafters of one of the outbuildings. "Perhaps one of those machines out of our archives could fix my roof?" He laughed mirthlessly. Selemon then laid a friendly arm across Rodney's shoulders and felt the man flinch. Of course, he would. It was only natural. To be expected.

"And how is Meria? Feeling better this morning, hmmm? I hear she was very distressed by... events. But an uprising? Well, well, who would have thought the lower orders had it in them? I have my spies out. We shall soon find the perpetrators. Kelsoe here," and Kelsoe stiffened to even more attention, if that was at all possible and Rodney scowled at him from beneath the weight of that oh-so-not-friendly arm. "Kelsoe tells me that an attempt was made to kidnap you, to free _you _specifically and not others of my household? Someone from your own planet. Atlantis, isn't it? You all arrived here together? Well, I did wonder. And this someone... John Sheppard, his name?" And Selemon vaguely recalled a Colonel Sheppard able to fire drones from the Chair of one of the Travellers' ships. A part of Selemon wanted this Sheppard very much dead. Another, wanted him alive. He might be useful compelled to work alongside Docky...

Rodney couldn't, wouldn't reply.

Selemon's hand shifted and dug deep into Rodney's shoulder, forcing him to twist away, and Rodney nearly cried out. Didn't. But his eyes watered.

"Please do feel free to pass comment here, Docky, there's a good fellow." Selemon's hand slipped back across his shoulders and his other hand patted Rodney's arm. Fondly.

"He's dead," said Rodney bitterly.

"Ah, but Kelsoe tells me, his body was not found amongst the other rebel corpses this morning. Why do you think that is?" Still Rodney wouldn't say, praying that Selemon wouldn't sense the rise in his own hopes... that Sheppard lived still... surely not a second time?... surely not after the way he'd fallen into Rodney's arms? He felt sick simply thinking about it.

"So, it would appear that your friend used the uprising, perhaps simply as a cover to gain your freedom." Well, well, a schemer after his own heart. This Sheppard sounded interesting… Then, yes, Selemon would like this Sheppard alive, if only to meet him in person, to gauge first hand, to understand fully, what motivated this man.

"Well, as I have said, my spies are out and Madacran City is not so very big. In time, we shall learn what has become of your friend."

And Rodney nodded miserably, feeling the weight of Selemon's arm dreadfully as all the worries of the Universe. He should feel glad, shouldn't he, that there was an outside chance that Sheppard still lived?

But how had he ever gotten himself into this situation? All because of a midnight snack? And he hated Kelsoe and knew he shouldn't. And he hated Selemon but that was permissible. Because the technology that was in Selemon's private museum wasn't the good kind of technology. It was most definitely of the bad planet-destroying category of technology. And knowing now what he did of Selemon, through Meria, it had fallen into very doubtful dubious hands. As had Rodney. And Rodney was being forced to get all this tech into working order. He just hoped... he really hoped... when hope suddenly seemed so elusive... when he'd always needed Sheppard for hope... he really hoped that if Sheppard did, in fact, still live, that he never did fall into Selemon's hands... And then... because Rodney was certain of no escape from Madacran or Selemon, it had to be hope that he, Rodney McKay, would never see John Sheppard ever again...

-oAo-

There were eight other patients with injuries to attend to and Jaleen had visited them in their own homes, leaving Seldric or Toplon to keep Joherner safe. The call was out. To apprehend both Joherner and Coppron, the considered ringleaders of the would-be rebellion. Thankfully, only Coppron was known by sight by the authorities. Joherner, by name only. Hopefully, no one would ever think to seek him out in a dwelling adjacent to government buildings. To be doubly sure, however, they had put out the rumour that Joherner had succumbed to his wounds received in the fighting.

There were also posters dotted about the city, asking for information on the whereabouts of a non-Madacran by the name of John Sheppard…

"My lord?" Jaleen started up from the bedside and would hide the sleeping Joherner but knew it to be too late. His lordship was already at the threshold. She should have been more vigilant. Of course, Lord Recito would use the back entrance when he required that she perform... certain duties. Toplon standing watch at the street door wouldn't even know of this visit.

There was anger on his face at the sight of a stranger in her... _his_ bed. And this had not been the first time she'd nursed the sick in that very place.

"Jaleen? I told you before! You like the idea of being whipped? This is Toplon's doing again? I thought I had instructed you to stay away from him!"

"My lord…" she lowered her head, her old argument on her lips, that Toplon was, after all, her husband.

His temper quickly subsided. He could never hold resentment towards his favourite for very long. With her healing powers alone, she had been a good acquisition. But her healing powers, he knew, also added a certain quality to her... touch.

Besides, curiosity had gotten the better of him. He came closer to the bed, head crooked to one side to study the slumbering man's features.

"Hmm… and where did Toplon find this one?" He kept his voice to a whisper so as not to disturb the man. Not out of consideration. Lord Recito was never that kind-hearted. No, he was fearful what the man might do if he woke. Then. It was like approaching a sleeping varyx, a mountain wild cat.

"In the desert." There was little point being anything but truthful, even if it were only half the truth. He could always beat it out of her.

"A Traveller? Toplon was hoping for a reward in rescuing him?" Travellers' ships often came down in the sandstorms that wrecked havoc with their flying equipment and those of Madacran knew it was unwise to venture far into the desert and never went there.

No. Not a Traveller. This much she knew. Toplon hadn't said. Joherner hadn't said. And she hadn't wanted to pry. But whatever the stranger's origins, Toplon had been very excited about them. And she carried an image in her head. Not of a spaceship but of gleaming blue towers of a city that floated on the waters of a sea.

"Yes. I suppose so," she lied.

"And no one has been asking for him? He was alone?"

"Yes. He is alone." And that was a pity, and another half-lie that might be truth if Rodney McKay was not ever rescued.

"So... no one will miss him if…" And Lord Recito's eyes showed greed. Lust. Jaleen hated that look. But it was the look he gave her at practically every visit. "Travellers are often trained soldiers," said Lord Recito, thinking out loud. "He looks as if he could fight. I have a function tonight… very important guests… You think he will be well enough to fight? Oh, lets put it this way, you make sure he _is_ well enough."

"Please-"

"Yes?"

She bit her tongue. How could she possibly beg for Joherner to be left alone, how could she plead with such a powerful man as Lord Recito? And she hated her own weakness that caved in before him.

"It is nothing." And she hated Lord Recito then. Despite all the things that he had made her do, she had never before really hated him There had always been acceptance of her fate in life. And hatred was a foreign emotion to her. In Ulith society, hatred was unheard of, the word, the concept did not even exist.

"And Jaleen?"

"Yes, my lord?"

He came over to her, fondling her hair, stroking her cheek, and it took all of her strength not to flinch and recoil from him. And he came round behind her and held her shoulders and nuzzled his face into her hair, his voice oily and loathsome in her ears.

"Wear something pretty. Something special. I need you for hostess and I want to impress. Selemon will be there. And afterwards... when we can be alone once more…"

"As you wish, my lord."

He released his hold. "And in case that Toplon makes an appearance, I suggest you run along and fetch four of my household to take… he has a name?"

"Daltheo." It had been her father's name.

"To take Daltheo to more… suitable quarters."

-oAo-

A dream? Atlantis? And Kelsoe in his room again?

No. Hands. Woken up by hands. Hands all over him. Hands holding him down. Hands pushing a cloth deep into his mouth before he'd even come round. Dry and choking at the back of his throat.

Jaleen?

They spun him over to his front, tying his own hands behind his back. Ankles tied too. Though not before he'd kicked one guy smartly in the face.

Where was Jaleen? They hadn't hurt her? Toplon? Seldric? So, they'd decided to sell him off after all. No more trust.

It took three of them to bodily carry him fighting and struggling down some back stairs. While the fourth blindly stumbled after them, covering his nose, gushing with blood.

Jaleen followed too. And Sheppard cursed her with his eyes. She was in on this? She was coming to mend the guy? These were slavers, right? And she was a slave. Didn't that mean anything to her? No, no, someone must be forcing her... but didn't look like it...

At least, he still had his clothes...

He expected to be tossed into a cart. Or thrown over the back of a trowsy again. But it was as good as. He was seeing an upside-down, crazy angled world writhing and squirming in his captor's arms. Eaves of roofs one minute. Joints in paving stones the next. His head clumsily dragged through some exotic pot plant once. His brain could scarcely keep track where they were taking him. Manhandled across a courtyard. Through a back gate. Two turns down alleys, where they nearly dropped him, he'd twisted so hard in their grip. With all this effort to escape, with the cloth bearing down on his tongue, he coughed and nearly threw up. It wasn't called a gag for nothing. He thought he'd at least get punched to keep him still. But he guessed a bruised slave wasn't worth as much. Though Jaleen was there. She could heal him again, couldn't she? But she'd washed her hands of him now, hadn't she?

Another courtyard and down steps to some kind of basement where his captors found a good place to fling their load. Flagstones. He could only grunt out a cry of sorts as he hit the hard surface. Well... a couple of bruises after all. He rolled over quickly onto his back taking in his surroundings, scarcely noticing the way his hands scraped against the floor. A sort of cell. With one high up window. Very high up. The sound of the door being locked. On him… and Jaleen. It honestly hadn't occurred to him that she was being kidnapped too.

He shouldn't have let this happen. He couldn't remember ever sleeping that soundly. He should have heard them coming. All systems down even though Jaleen had cured him.

She was on the floor, kneeling beside him in an instant, removing the gag.

"Please... please forgive me, Joherner. Please believe me that I could not prevent this."

"It's… it's ok." Words coming rough, licking his lips, trying to work feeling and moisture back into his mouth. And now it was his turn to feel bad. She'd been on his side so many times now, and he'd doubted her? "But… you want to tell me what's going on?" He shuffled over to his side so she could untie him. Her dark hair fell about her face as she worked at the knot at his hands. He couldn't see her eyes, but the same regret still hung in her voice.

"They... want you to... fight."

"Fight? Thought I'd just been doing that," he said, sitting up, ruefully rubbing his sore wrists, while Jaleen untied his ankles.

"You can fight?"

"Fight? Yeah, sure. It's what I do," he shrugged, though he didn't want to brag. It struck him as an odd sort of question being as Jaleen knew the story of the attack on the Selemon villa. "What do you mean by 'fight' exactly. Now boxing, that's not my strong suit, and Teyla, she says I'm hopeless with sticks... crap… you don't mean as in... gladiator?" He'd seen enough of this society to know that was a real enough possibility.

"Boxing? Glad-?" He was confusing her. "No. No. Only… fight." Huh, if only it were ever that easy. And he felt there was a lie in there somewhere. That she wasn't telling him the whole story.

He made it to his feet… yeah, there had to be some fresh bruises there, and he went over to the window, eyeing up the chances of escaping out that way, conceding already that that would be a 'no.'

"With or without weapons? And I guess they take bets, right?" The more questions he was coming up with the more concerned he was becoming. Freaking understatement.

"Either. And yes, there is gambling."

He walked over to the back wall and took a running leap at the window, hauling himself up to the ledge, pulling on the bars to peek out... and then let go. The window was at ground level outside so that was useful but no way was he ever going to loosen those bars.

"Why me?" He looked back her, standing there in the centre of the cell... and he noticed for the first time that she was kinda pretty, so it seemed a shame to see her unhappy.

"Lord Recito, that's my owner, thought you were a Traveller and could therefore fight. He came to my rooms while you were asleep. He has an important dinner tonight and the fight provides entertainment. If you win, there will be an auction and you will go to the highest bidder. Often this means a placement in a noble household. Lord Recito might even retain you for himself."

Perhaps that's how Kelsoe had gotten hired?

"Not much of a prize, and if I lose?" He guessed he knew the answer to that.

"You… will not be spared." Fight to the death then... and he was sure there were tears in her eyes.

"Right. Any idea who I'll be up against?"

"Any... any one of Lord Recito's private soldiers. They are all very good. Only three times have I seen one lose in the ten years I have been here."

"Well, I'll have to make that four, won't I?" he said grimly. "Why lock you up too?"

"You have to be prepared. Bathed. And changed into the appropriate clothing. It is the custom." Her eyes studied the ground. "It is the way to honour those in the contest, to show you what you will also win if you are victor. Your opponent will also have... an escort." And she glanced up to the window, anywhere but look directly at him. "It is believed that you will fight... better... with such an... encouragement... I know that these are not your ways..."

He felt a shot of alarm run through him as he cottoned on to her meaning.

"Jaleen, no, you don't have to do any of this," and he walked over to her, awkwardly raising a hand, to do what? To comfort her? To touch her? When it was the last thing they both wanted to do? Another time. Another place perhaps. He let his hand fall to his side and turned and faced the wall, chewing his lips, bringing up both his hands to rest up on his hips.

"At this stage, I am simply expected to undress for you." Her voice resigned. How many times had she been forced to… please men? She deserved respect. Being a slave was bad enough, without being used this way.

"No. I won't let you..." And he shook his head in disbelief, still facing the wall.

"The guards like to check," and she indicated to the door with her head. He turned round sharply, and noticing the small hole set in the door, angrily walked over and placed his back up against the timbers.

"Well, on this occasion they're going to get disappointed, huh?" He detected a faint glimmer of a smile on her face. "Show me where this new outfit is that I'm supposed to wear and I can dress myself too."

She nodded over to a small table in the corner, holding a basin of water and what appeared to be a couple of beige towels.

"I don't see anything," he said, thinking she'd made some mistake.

She went across the room and picked up one of the cloths.

"That's a towel," he pointed out.

"No. That's what you're expected to wear."

"Crap."

-oAo-

"Docky"

"Master."

"Time to extend your privileges."

"Wha?"

And there was that arm snaking across his shoulders again. And Docky inwardly recoiled again and wondered yet again if he really wasn't Selemon's type. He was sure that he had goosepimples the size of golf balls at the feel of the Senator's breath on his neck.

"My private... um... study..." His secret room. Leading Rodney by the arm. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

"And today I feel generous and feel the need to celebrate." Oh god. And Rodney had never in the entirety of his life ever felt his mind go so numbingly blank. Not even when first faced with the prospect of being fed upon by the Wraith.

The door loomed large in front of them... Meria had told him about this room...

And there was Kelsoe guarding it. He might as well be guarding the portal to Hell. But Selemon had said, had made it clear that Rodney really was not his type.

And they went through the door... and... yeah... study... was a study... and there... a bed... a grand four poster affair, larger than Rodney's own quarters, draped with yeah, purple curtains... well... there was nothing wrong with that... he knew of executives on Earth... those high powered ones... those multi-conglomerate guys... who kept rooms to sleep near their multi-national, multi-millionaire offices and cough, other things... nothing unusual... but that hand was still on his shoulder... and Selemon's perfume... heck, what was that?... he was sure he was going to sneeze... too close... too close... and he pushed Selemon away and sneezed...

"Rodney?"

"S'ok... think I'm allergic to something..." and someone handed him a cloth and he thanked them and wiped his streaming eyes and when he could see again... it'd been a dark-haired slave... actually slave-boy really... twentyish… quite tanned, well, completely tanned... _completely_ and _all over_ tanned... and Rodney could tell that because the slave was... naked, in fact... well, practically… apart from some leather strap that… And Rodney coughed again.

"Sit, Docky."

"Oh... yes... right... sit... yes..." And he was thinking, where? when the slave pulled aside curtains, purple naturally, that hung along one wall to reveal... another half to the room... a massive low sofa... upholstered in purple... very imperial... and why have a bed? This was so huge... and a low table... with ivis in a decanter... was that cut crystal?... didn't know they had cut crystal on Madacran... well, you learn something new everyday... and the glasses that were very tall, what? Thirty-five centimetres. And fluted, yes, fluted at the base... that reminded him of a set his grandmother had once owned... and all these details were important to him... because he just didn't want to look at that _other_ thing that was in the room... And he'd flushed red... royal red... and with all this royal purple around... a terrible colour clash.

Selemon threw himself onto the sofa, inviting Rodney to join him at his side. Rodney sat also... allowing a good two metre space between him and Selemon, distance between himself and that perfume. Though Rodney was feeling like he needn't worry so much now... Selemon was definitely into slim, tanned, _all over tanned_, dark-haired types.

Selemon poured wine and offered Rodney a glass, still smiling sickly sweetly at some private joke. Or at Rodney's discomfort… or both… at Rodney getting used to... struggling to come to terms with... the _other_ thing in the room... though he'd seen it once before... in the museum... and when it'd disappeared, he had assumed it'd gone for scrap... re-cycling... it wasn't as if someone would have stolen the thing... well, it was definitely being re-cycled...

"You haven't asked why I'm celebrating?"

And he hadn't actually asked a lot of things recently... and what Selemon was celebrating certainly seemed at the bottom of the list… Rodney was thinking more like... why?... but couldn't quite find the words to finish the question. Too polite. Dr Rodney McKay was at a loss for once.

"Oh... sorry," and that was just about the limit of Rodney's apology for the Senator, but he did well, he kept the sarcasm out of his voice. "And... um... why are you celebrating?" Sipping wine that could nearly choke... pretending to sniff the aroma like some connoisseur... anything to avoid... actually _looking_… at the _thing_…

"Oh, I have two reasons," said Selemon, airily. "My friend here, has just informed me of, shall we say... fortuitous events that are about to unfold tonight that will present great opportunities my way, and simultaneously save my life."

And the naked slave boy had left the room now... so that meant... "By friend... you mean?" And Rodney gestured towards the contraption, still not wishing to look... ok... a little now... because he just couldn't help it... the thing was _there _right in his face... you couldn't _help _but look at it... _and _Selemon's 'friend'.

Selemon stood and took himself off to the gyroscope, gazing at the naked figure of the dark-haired male tied, spread-eagled within the cage, secured by the lengths of chains that had once held machinery, held tight, blindfolded, writhing, trembling, straining, perspiring with the effort to... what? Escape? The man was in no obvious pain... drugged then... and judging from a certain part of his anatomy, lost in some sick bondage world of Selemon's imagination.

"Hmmm... friend... anyone can be persuaded to be a friend, Docky, with cer moton. The ultimate drug in... male arousal. And these 'friends' impart all sorts of useful information in the mind's efforts to seek relief from their… 'predicament,' and it is only I that they see as the benefactor of their release." And Selemon sipped his wine. Casually. As if it were nothing that he abused his victims. "What do you think of my rather novel use for the gyroscope, Docky? Hmm? I can turn the individual to any angle... can adjust the position..." And Selemon pulled at one of the many chains, and the man swung from a forty five degree angle to horizontal and his arms were instantly pulled out tight behind him and he grunted and strained more... wanting more movement to end his torture... Selemon stroked the man's arm briefly and the man seemed to quiver, groaned, needing more of the touch.

"I have known men to die with the ecstasy," murmured Selemon, gazing at the man with fondness.

You're sick, thought Rodney... couldn't drink... couldn't swallow... knew that he gaped, horrified at the gyroscope... at the unwanted images his head was conjuring up...

"This is art, Docky, do you not think? Others surround themselves with beautiful paintings of the perfect male form. Here I have it as three-dimensional reality... expressing itself with such intense passion... each nerve tested to its limit... every muscle and tendon full of the capacity for life..." and he sipped his wine again, considering the bound man before him. "All thought etched upon the features is that of pure desire... Desire, I find is the most unique of emotions. Base and physical. But in its climax, almost... spiritual... and you are taken out of your body... so... to prolong that experience, that journey... from the sordid to the incarnate... for this man... am I not taking him to heaven? Am I not his god? Friends. Yes, we are friends... and ultimately, my friends always show their gratitude..."

-oAo-


	7. Chapter 7

Madacran

Chapter Seven

Two guards held Sheppard firmly by the arms and another pair followed behind, pushing him so hard that he nearly stumbled. Well, it was understandable - he'd just denied them a peek show. They marched him along dark corridors, where occasional passing slaves, scurrying about their duties, were shoved to one side for daring to get in the way.

He toyed with the idea of making a break for it. He might as well die here fighting than as part of a show to please their lordships. But the old sense of self-preservation had kicked in and he guessed he'd just wait and see what else panned out. Here he'd taking on four heavily built, armoured guys with short swords. Who knew how many more were beyond these corridors? He'd been told he'd be up against one. A fight that offered a lot better odds even if he did have an audience. And he might win that.

They made it to the large hall, waiting just at the entrance as one of his guards went off, to inform this Lord Recito that they'd arrived.

He was already tamping down hard on the concern that he might not ever leave this room alive, so to keep his feelings even more in check was nothing. Much. He just wasn't going to let on that he was in any way surprised or even impressed with this room. But the disbelief was there inspite of himself. It wasn't just the brightness, though the party designers _had_ gone crazy with the golden theme for the night, but the way the place just dripped with opulence. Everything here was a sickening stark contrast to the cell, to Jaleen's quarters and to Lower Madacran.

This was reality? A movie set it had to be and here he was in the middle of it all, with his best slave-led-to-the-slaughter gear on. Time after time, Pegasus never failed to throw these unreal situations at him. And time after time, Rodney had promised him a hologram deck like Star Trek... well, Rodney must have just activated it…

Wide pillars held the high vaulted ceiling, all carved out and painted with gold leaf. Scores of white statues stood in archways and alcoves. Gold candelabras, thick with candles added to the golden glow of the room. Deep yellow silks shimmered at windows that gave out views to lush green foliage, blossoms and fountains. Low tables along two sides of the room, draped in thick golden brocade, were laden with dishes piled high with exotic fruit and dishes and tall vases filled with flowers. Slaves ran round with giant platters of food or wine in large jars.

And the entertainment on the floor at the present... musicians, gold painted semi-naked dancing girls, all skirted by a couple of flame throwers who seemed to come dangerously close to singeing said semi-naked dancing girls.

It was kinda of a weird place to hold a fight in. Large enough sure. Plenty of space out there on the polished marble floor. Perhaps they were going to transfer to somewhere more... fighty. But these guys had to be sick, to want to watch someone die as entertainment. Hell, but it'd better not be him, though... and he didn't want to kill anyone either.

He wondered which one of his lordships gathered at the tables was the guest of honour, this Selemon. And he hoped that whichever one it was, hadn't gotten over the intrusion into his privacy of three nights ago. And there was an odd thought that crept in, that this guy's wife was with Rodney... no... don't go there...

His eyes narrowed as he now studied the guests more closely. He'd seen them already whilst scanning the room, but a second look…

Well, that was different... no... that was _disturbing_...

The far side of the room was lost in a smoky haze of some sort of pungent incense that burned from holders on the low tables where guests relaxed on sofa loungers. At first glance, Sheppard had assumed the gents were all toga'd or tunicked, and the ladies were all kitted out in next-to-nothing dresses. They were all having a good time, laughing, waited on by the slaves. They'd been a lot of... exposed skin... but hey, this was an evening function... no... he squinted… a closer look... another count... half were actually stark naked... the other half, nearly so... and a good quarter... heck, he'd come in half way through a damned orgy. Men with women. Women with momen. Men with men.

He quickly made out boredom and studied the walls instead. Jeez, but you couldn't escape it. Painted murals. Country scenes. Chamber scenes, but all scenes of... and he shuffled uncomfortably... well, perhaps they were gods or something and that's what gods got up to in their spare time. He wasn't going to be prudish. It was up to them what they painted on their walls, but it sorta went with the custom Jaleen had been trying to explain to him, the way that Clada had once kept eyeing him up, and yeah, the _orgy_...

He spotted Jaleen then, doing the hostess rounds, in a robe slung off the shoulder, her hair piled high, held with jewelled pins, not looking out of place among all those genteel ladies, the ones with clothes on, that is. Her attempts at smiles disappeared when she caught sight of him across the floor of the room and she immediately turned away, pretending to instruct another slave. It wasn't her fault. He didn't blame her that he was here. And he was actually thankful that she wasn't directly involved with whatever was going on at the tables but... he guessed that might come later.

Back in the cell, he'd been adamant he was going to stick to his usual leggings and tunic, as much as defiance as anything, as much as a one fingered gesture to their lordships but had finally agreed to the wrapped round affair. He just didn't want to cause her any grief, sure that she'd get beaten if he refused. She was going through enough as it was, simply with the guilt of just handing him over. _And_ she'd made a pretty good attempt at persuading him. It really hadn't taken much. All she'd had to say was, 'then they will make you fight naked.' But at least she'd fixed it for him so that the towel didn't feel like it was going to fall off any time soon.

There was applause suddenly and the floor cleared quickly. The betting had started, judging by the amount of paper slips and coins changing hands. Funny how that wasn't different no matter what society you were in. He fidgeted as all eyes seemed to turn his way and that made his guards tighten their hold on his arms. Snickers and guffaws came from the audience that didn't do a lot for a guy's confidence. He inwardly winced but heck, he could console himself with the thought that several guests had been forced to prise themselves away from their partners just to catch sight of him.

A commotion started up at another set of doors and everyone's attention, including Sheppard's, switched to a second group of guards. They'd spotted him too and suddenly there was an awful load of sizing up of the opposition going on... on both sides. He turned away and exhaled slowly... felt a heart beat loud in his ears... this wasn't going to be easy... anyone of them... built like Ronon or Te'Alc... but armoured with those breast plate things and helmets... carrying mean-looking half-swords in scabbards… shit... this was gonna be David versus effing Goliath...

The head guy, Lord Recito stood, pulling up a toga over his shoulder and trying to push some eager lady-friend away. He stooped to bang a pot down on the table. Conversation eased off.

Sheppard felt his stomach tighten. Stage fright, huh?

"Ladies and gentlemen... I give you, Daltheo..." A hand in his direction. Some applause. Well, thanks for that.

"And my champion, Hanan," he announced, pointing to the far side of the room, as one of the guards, wearing the full centurion stuff, came over to the centre of the floor, bowed and unclipped a purple cloak at his neck, throwing it off flamboyantly to the floor, to be scooped up by some slave boy. That was just plain showing off. But the room, loving, and intoxicated by the display, and whatever else, went crazy with whistling, cheering and manic clapping.

"Ladies and Gentlemen... to the death..." Further cheering whilst Recito seated himself once more. Sheppard hardly had time to register what those last three words meant before a nine inch knife was shoved into his hand and he found himself propelled forward to face his opponent. At least, Sheppard _had_ a weapon. And he was grateful for that. He'd known the dice was going to be loaded against him in this game, but perhaps he should just throw the knife in Lord Recito's general direction and have done with it.

Hanan was now armed with a spear that he held stick fashion. Sheppard backed off a fraction, tentatively touching his tongue to his lips, feeling too damned close to the spear's point, not taking his eyes off Hanan a second, toying with the handle of the knife, getting used to it's feel and balance in his right palm... not bad... he'd rather have his 90ml naturally... no... he'd got to get that spear... improve... even the odds... he'd seen it done... he'd seen Teyla take down Ronon... piece of cake...

They were circling each other... caution... but heck, what had the other guy got to be cautious about? Catcalling started from the audience eager to see action... blood... a quick look... some were still engrossed-

Hanan lunged forward with the spear, and Sheppard, not paying anywhere near enough attention, only just darted out of the way in time. And that sent up a chorus of boos from the audience. They wanted this over now?... hey, give a guy a chance...

A second and third prod with the spear and Sheppard still kept that safe distance. This could take all week, but why should he risk his neck - or any other part of him for that matter unnecessarily- for entertainment?

And then he was taken surprise as guards from behind pushed him forward... Jeez!... and he jerked his body hard sideways as the spear swished by, close to his face. Hanan had missed but promptly swung the spear round much like a club. Sheppard went down low in an instant... the floor the only safe place to be... and used the floor to slide in with a footballers' tackle at the guy's stomach. But Hanan, finding his swing hitting air only, was quick to back off.

Quick for his bulk too. Sheppard had rolled and stood and found Hanan already facing him. Both of them now, seeking out the others' strengths and weaknesses. To Sheppard, it didn't seem like Hanan had any, except a tendency to get his pals to cheat. Sheppard had now got to watch his back too.

Some applause... but even more jeering to get a move on.

Four of them were in the space now. Circling still. This was getting impossible. Trying to keep Hanan well in front and trying to prevent his two guard friends slipping in behind him. The guards won and threw him forward again... the spear jabbing in his direction... over and over… and all he could do was to duck and dive to the side or low... or make some token effort with the knife... breathless now… mouth dry... hissing once as the spear cut into his forearm... steeling himself to not react other than that... no way could he make an offensive though... Hanan was always too far out of the reach of his knife...

He had to get a rhythm going then... lull the guy into thinking he was safe... introduce some lateral thinking… back to plan A... sort of... he'd have no weapon for a couple of seconds, he knew... but he had to take that chance... he swiftly sprung _back_ between his two guards... and threw the knife with everything he had to offer straight at the guy's bare thigh...

The clapping went delirious...

Hanan cried and grabbed at the wound, wrenching out the knife. And Sheppard pulled a sword from one of the guard's scabbards... the guards still in stunned surprise seeing their champion so suddenly in trouble... Sheppard took his chance and sprinted forward…

But damn, that spear was up in his face again, ripping at the skin on his cheek. He yelled and instantly backed off. The guy was tough and hadn't dropped the spear. Plan A hadn't worked... ok… try again... they wouldn't be expecting it a second time... not immediately... and he swung round, bringing up the sword hard between the legs of the second guard... who screamed and clutched at his privates... hey... they should have armour there... and zipped out the guard's sword from his scabbard in the one easy move, hurling that at Hanan too.

The sword bedded itself into the same thigh. The guy was down and the spear rattled and slid across the floor. Sheppard ran again, launching himself down to the marble, skidding to retrieve it, only seeing the first guard out of the corner of his eye... too late... zapped of breath... stunned as the guard slammed a fist down hard on the back of his neck. His vision blanked out for a second. The cheering going quiet and fuzzy in his ears... He snapped himself out of it. Aware the guard was on top of him, straddling his shoulders somehow, kneeling on and crushing his right wrist that held the sword. He seized hold of Sheppard's hair, banging the side of his head... again... and again.... and again onto the marble... If Sheppard could only reach... with his other hand... reach for the spear... fingertips away... pushing up against his attacker so he could use his sword... but his attacker had now shifted and concentrated on raining down punches on his wrist, forcing Sheppard to release it.

The crowd were going wild with their approval.

Sheppard heaved hard and threw the guard off... scrambling to his feet... weaponless again... stumbling back a few paces... dazed... wiping at his cut and bruised face, at his nose bleed... trying to focus on the guard who'd retrieved his own sword... standing between him and the spear... gasping for breath... his back, jaw and wrist throbbing with the recent abuse they'd just received... this wasn't good... but at least reinforcements hadn't been sent in... it was just him and this guard... who advanced on him... toying with the sword, circling the blade round and round to within inches of Sheppard's face, grinning... Sheppard swallowed... retreated a step... a glance at the other guard who still screamed, still writhed, still clutched at his privates in agony as blood gushed between his fingers… and another glance at Hanan, moaning, now free of the sword impaling his thigh but out of the fight.

This should be over, but neither he nor Hanan was dead.

The abandoned sword at Hanan's side it had to be then, but he couldn't trust his own strength to get himself there... Pacing again... to get that respite he needed... drawing a hand across his eyes and nose again, wringing off the sweat... breathing deeply... feigning even more weakness than he actually felt... not exactly difficult... let the guy come real close... then… he was off suddenly to the left, ducking, feeling the blade miss him by nanometres, deftly picking up the sword by Hanan... and with both hands spun round to deflect the second following blow of the guard's, feeling the shock of the metal hitting metal reverberate from his aching arms right through to his skull... over and over he defended himself... breaking off but finding the guard right back at him... as clear as day though that the guard was gaining the upper hand... he was trained in this sort of fighting and Sheppard wasn't.

And a cry going up from the audience... "Kill him! Kill him!" and no, the guard didn't need that kind of coaxing... he was just doing grand... and Sheppard's arms becoming heavy with the constant parrying and trading blows... he was sure he couldn't keep this up... and then someone yelled, "Daltheo! End this! You must kill Hanan to end this!" Jaleen... and then the penny dropped... 'kill him' had meant kill Hanan... these guys were going to play fair?... stick with that?... But how could he strike down a defenceless, injured man?... Damn... He backed off gasping, swaying on his legs, sweat stinging his eyes again, the calling of 'kill him!' ringing in his ears... he couldn't... he couldn't...

And the guard made at him again. There was just going to be no let up in this... left and right... left and right with the swords... he couldn't keep up this momentum forever... he had to kill Hanan... he had to get to Hanan and finish this... no half measures... him or Hanan... and he hated it... hated that he was even contemplating this... he let out a no! with an angry strike of the sword... and more... no!... no!... to the shouts that cried for Hanan's blood... No! But with both hands, he made one final swing upwards with the sword, pushing the guard's sword away from him, shoving his body forward hard against the guard's. The guard quickly tried bringing up his weapon but found he had little room to move it. Hilt pressed up to hilt, with both men grunting from the effort... With every last ounce of his strength, Sheppard finally forced the guard to stagger away from him.

Speed now... and he slid round the back of the guard, half stumbling to the last few feet to Hanan. Sheppard wasn't going to do this... he'd appeal to the crowd for mercy... that's what they did in gladiator movies, wasn't it?

But Hanan had hitched himself up off the floor and twisting round, kicked at Sheppard's feet with his good leg. The blow sent Sheppard tumbling forward, crashing down over Hanan's body and Hanan was soon at him, punching him hard whilst scrabbling for Sheppard's sword... somehow he'd still held it... he wanted... he just wanted to say... just say... I'm not going to kill you... but the hits he was taking... Hanan was desperate... fighting like a madman... fighting for survival... the cries still echoing through the hall. Kill. Kill. Kill.

Hanan holding on to him... getting in more punches... wrestling, grappling on the floor... rolling and rolling together... Sheppard's head banging against the floor... more dazed than ever... head and body... mind... confused... pain... couldn't seem to defend himself... only telling himself to hold onto the damn sword... must hold the damn sword and keep it clear of Hanan... keep the damned sword away from Hanan... but it made him one handed... only the one hand to fight Hanan off... and the other guard would be helping out soon... and however much he turned to escape... couldn't escape... but he managed to get himself on top... but Hanan's hands were at his throat now... tightening... and the world going quiet and black... and heck... he wouldn't mind... he wouldn't mind quiet and black right now… it'd be an the end of all this... but somehow... he strained against the strangle hold, arcing backwards to loosen the grip at his neck... and swiped the sword across Hanan's throat...

The wave of cheering hit his brain like some kind of aftershock... well, if you'd bet on Daltheo winning you'd probably be making a fortune right now...

He crawled on all fours away from Hanan's body... hearing out the last of the gurgling... watching the dark blood spill out from Hanan's neck... adding his own dripping sweat and blood to the mess on the floor... from cuts he didn't even realise he'd taken... half expecting the remaining guard to thrust his blade into his exposed back... he glanced that way... but the guard, breathless, probably glad of a break himself right now, simply pursed his lips, nodded, sheathed his sword and walked off to help others with his injured friend.

Sheppard tossed his sword away from him in disgust.

And trembling, he reached over to Hanan, a silent apology as he closed the guy's eyes... wondering about his life story... hating himself for the choice he'd just had to make... hating the whole damn Madacran society... He rolled over and lay on his back... closing his eyes... letting the coldness of the marble bliss out some of the ache and pains in his body... yeah... there was something to be said for wearing only a towel... conversations over who'd won what bet reached him... and he felt more sickened than ever... a movement close by... and he lifted his head and peered over... Jaleen kneeling beside him... a basin of water beside her and a cloth in her hand... And he could nearly laugh... it was sort of becoming her trade mark... her thing... though he had refused earlier in the cell.

"You're going to bathe me again? Here?" he asked, looking round the room, wincing, the question hurting his cut and bruised face. Talk at the tables, had returned to normal. With the odd laughter and giggle. As before. As if nothing had happened. They were probably all back at their orgy already.

"The auction will follow shortly." Was all she said. He sat up. Watched a couple of slaves drag Hanan's body out of the hall by his feet. Followed by another couple mopping the blood up. "Please, you will permit me?" And she held up the wrung out cloth and he reluctantly allowed her to start on his face. Wincing as the cloth smarted against his cuts and bruises... gone before he could even say 'ow' … she was healing him...

"Why should I? Why should I honour their customs?" A question to himself as much as to her. They value human life as nothing.

"For now, it keeps you alive, _Daltheo_," she reminded him, beginning to sponge down the arm with the gash. She touched it and he glanced down, watching it heal instantly. "And there are those of us who would be pleased that you remain so."

And he looked at her, at her face now turned to wring out the cloth once more, at her throat, at her arms working with the cloth, noticing things for the first time and trying to read what he was sensing here. "Jaleen..." But she said nothing and he allowed her to clean down his legs, amazed as more cuts and scratches disappeared under her hands.

Another couple of slaves passed by, these two pulling at what appeared to be a mattress positioning it to the centre of the floor. Another fight? Acrobats? "I could have done with one of those," he remarked eyeing up the softness of the fabric. Then he wouldn't have taken half the battering he had.

"No, it is not another fight. Please... stand now and I can... wash the remainder?"

He got himself to his feet, surprised by how easy it was. "It's ok. I really _can_ do this for myself," he said, offering to take the cloth.

"No... Daltheo... Please... you do not understand..."

"What don't I understand?"

"You... you must go to the cushion... you... and I… both..."

And he looked over to the mattress, slowly comprehending. And his stomach lurched at the idea. She had said she was his... reward. He had expected it to be later, back in the cell if he'd survived, and he would have refused again.

"You're kidding me?" he breathed out hoarsely. "Here?" was all he could ask again, scanning all the faces in the room, though few were actually looking their way. Like the killing of Hanan, this was nothing to them.

"Please... Daltheo... it is custom-"

"It's not my damn custom! And as I recall, I'm not even a slave!" And yeah, he was raising his voice, and yeah, he was getting attention from the guests now... guards... even Recito, but pardon him for interrupting their bodily pleasures...

Jaleen looked over at Recito anxiously.

"Do not make this difficult. Please. Before the auction commences, they have to see that you can... perform... function... You must do this, Daltheo. Please. Please go to the cushion. Please allow me remove your clothing and complete your bathing." Her hand reached for the knot at his waist but he beat her to it, barring her from going any further. She looked at him, startled, frightened even, then turned away, confused and wouldn't meet his eye. "It is my work, Daltheo," her voice falling really low. "It is what I do. I will ensure that it is pleasurable for you. I promise. Please. You will not like the alternative..."

The odd taunt started among the guests. And she moved in closer, trying again to untie the knot. But he still held the cloth tightly at his waist preventing her.

"No. I won't do this. I've provided them with one show tonight. They're not getting anymore out of me!"

"Please! It is your reward. It is the custom! It is recognised that after such a fight… a man… can be… roused."

"Which man? Those guys!" he hissed back at her. No way was he going to do this in public. No way was he even going to do this, period.

"Please!" Her hand resting over his on the knot. "Please! Do this for me! It will appear you're refusing me. The shame will be reflected on me. They will think I am no longer capable of my duties." And he could sympathise with that. She'd saved his life twice, but he still couldn't give in.

Perhaps she was right to worry. Lord Recito stood and indicated to two much younger females to approach the centre of the floor. Twins. He must have sensed that something was wrong and was already blaming Jaleen.

"Perhaps you would find these more to your taste?" He shouted out. "And a pair? What more could a man want?" Much laughter. Whistling. A slow clap.

Jaleen left him to make room for the new arrivals. Pity in her eyes. He watched her back away to the side of the hall, allowing the two girls to each take one of his arms and playfully tug him over to the mattress.

One began fondling the hairs on his chest.

"Oh, but you are still all so bloody! We will really have to finish bathing you!" pouted the other.

"No. No. Not tonight. Not that I'm grateful." And he still held on tight to his towel and pushed them away. And they pouted some more.

"Perhaps tonight's champion prefers male companionship!" And the laughter was even louder and drink tankards were being banged on tables. And Lord Recito clapped and summoned over a young man.

"God, Recito, what you have to do to please a slave these days!" bawled out one of Recito's buddies.

The girls skittered off and the young man, also wearing the compulsory towel, approached Sheppard, smiling, letting the towel drop to the floor only a couple of metres away...

Damn. How the hell was he going to get out of this?

And he bolted for the exit.

Sometimes... the only plan isn't always the best one.

Four of the guards blocked his way suddenly, and yeah, they stopped him. And held him. One by using a neck lock. Two others by twisting his arms sharply behind him.

Cries of 'poor show!' and 'shame!' and booing from the guests.

And a fourth guard whisked off Sheppard's towel with a grin. Because this guy, Daltheo, had killed one of their own and had crippled another.

"You bastards! You freaking bastards!" clenched out Sheppard, straining against the guards' grip on him.

Cheering and clapping now. They were getting something of a show.

The guard threw aside the towel and pulled out a knife.

"It's castration for those who refuse!" he said, virtually smacking his lips in anticipation of some nice juicy revenge.

The two at Sheppard's arms, each used a foot curled round his ankles to force his legs apart. And he was getting nowhere struggling as the knife came in closer.

"No, wait!" shouted Recito, who didn't really want the goods damaged. "Jaleen! Since the man is clearly deranged and has refused all partners, let him do this on his own."

"Oh no, Recito, you're not going to use moton?" came a call from the audience.

"That's sort of like cheating, old chum!"

"Wouldn't waste good moton on a slave!"

"Come on! I wanna watch this! He'll want to fuck a trowsy by the time he's done!"

And Jaleen was there, kneeling before him, holding a syringe. This had to be a bad dream. These guys weren't technologically advanced but they had syringes? She looked up with those round brown eyes of hers and whispered sorry, before jabbing the needle hard into the inside of his thigh. And the men held him tight and he was tense trying to fight them off so... jeez it hurt.

And he was pushed down to the mattress, still struggling like fury but he guessed that was half the fun for these guys. His hands were tied behind his back. Then his wrists tied to his ankles. And they made him lay on his back, all his limbs trapped... but... his body exposed...

Some jeering now... waiting for the drug to kick it. Which wasn't long... little by little a warmth seeping through... and he relaxed into the warmth... even his eyes seemed to get all wrapped in a cosy heaviness... and he moaned... couldn't help himself... and they cheered... and he writhed over to his front... and moaned again into the silkiness of the mattress... so, so good... limp into the mattress...

And all hell let loose... screaming, shouting, banging... what the heck?

Like he cared... he just had to... had to... and he twisted and squirmed... fighting the bindings... wanting to... wanting to... see what was going on... tables… stuff on tables, crashing, spilling over in escapes... Jaleen?... blood curdling screaming... a soldier... soldiers running past.... clatter of spears... ringing of swords... screaming... and he twisted and writhed more... because he just had to... do something... do something about that... that... breathing rapid... snorting… snorting into the softness... wanting… biting into mattress… tossing his head from one side to the other... desperate... sweating... heat… heat between his thighs… pushing his body down into the soft, soft oh so soft mattress... against his chest… his face… his lips… heat... hot... desperate... a desperateness matching the fighting, turmoil all around... Jaleen?... escape… good time to escape... couldn't... couldn't... heat... so wanted his hands free to... to... damnit... he needed his hands free... wanting to... wanting to feel the touch of hands on his own skin... wanting... wanting... the feel of the mattress against his skin... oh yes... good... good... oh so good... an attack... men dying... weapons clanking... men screaming... his own guttural noises... the mattress in his face... gainst his lips... wanting... wanting... writhing, twisting... damn them, damn them doing this to him... must... must... so good... so good... oh god, so good... oh god... rubbing his face... his neck... pressing his chest... his thighs... forcing, thrusting his hips down... must... must... must... thrusting... thrusting… shuddering... thrusting... oh hell!... oh hell... oh hell, so good… oh please... oh hell...

And the fighting seemed to reach a sudden climax, falling silent, ending with Recito's decapitated head rolling to a stop in front of Sheppard's panting face...

-oAo-


	8. Chapter 8

Madacran

Chapter Eight

Sheppard lay there. Deep breaths slowing. Shamed. Exhausted in the mess of the mattress. Squeezing his eyes tight against the grotesque features of Recito. Against the sickening feel of Recito's blood spattered over him.

Aware of others moving around the hall now, he flicked open his eyes. Shut them again instantly. Probably would be a good idea to play dead. Shouldn't be that difficult...

Listening. Tense. Tuned in to all around him.

Good or bad guys? There was no way of telling. And if they were bad guys, the killing Sheppard variety, he was too tied up to offer any defence anyhow.

A survivor's moaning. Cut short by the quick work of a knife. Yeah, it'd be a real good idea to play dead.

He sensed the approach of feet close by and hardly dare breathe.

"What do we do with this one, sir?"

A sharp tug on his hair and his head was pulled back, forcing open his eyes, constricting his chest, hurting his throat. Hell, he _couldn't_ breathe…

A man came into view, in full Roman officer gear. It'd gotta be Russell Crowe straight out of 'Gladiator', but then, Maximus Meridius didn't ever have Wraith teeth and finger bones hanging from his belt.

Crowe kicked Recito's head aside and then crouched low, his grinning smile stuck right bang centre of Sheppard's vision. Sheppard could so do without this.

"Judging by that last performance, Athlum, do you think he'd be a very useful addition to our cause?"

"His fighting was good," conceded Crowe's sidekick. And Sheppard could almost forgive the guy his eye-watering hold on his scalp right then. Hey, anyone on his side to stop him figuring as another statistic in the room's slaughter.

"It wasn't his fighting I was referring to," said Crowe, "but yes, there's that. It would be a waste to slit his throat."

Crowe stood and Sheppard's head was let go. He heaved in gulps of air as his bindings were cut by Athlum, wincing at the stiffness in his arms and legs as he was a hauled to his feet, staggering forward slightly before he steadied himself. The Crowe guy looked him up and down, still seeing the funny side of the fix Sheppard found himself in... and Sheppard looked, well, he didn't know where to look, self-conscious, not knowing what to do with his hands… hold them to his front? He settled for an attempt to wipe his face clean, and to looking anywhere other than that smirk at his nakedness… looking at the bloody carnage all around them... the bile starting to rise in his throat... looking at cut and mutilated bodies... guests, guards and slaves alike... looking at the wide staring eyes...

And this dying had gone on while he lay on the floor? An assassination on a grand scale? A military coup? Recito was head of government, wasn't he? There would have to be repercussions and the live occupants in that room, the twenty or so of Crowe's soldiers... and Sheppard... were soon going to be in the thick of what might be flying this way…

And he looked for Jaleen, as Crowe talked on, sure she wasn't in the body count.

"You provided a thankful diversion. We couldn't have asked for better if we'd made offerings to every deity in existence."

Crowe's eyes narrowed, studying Sheppard's face, head to one side.

"A soldier? You fought well and now you are making an assessment of the situation, as do I?"

Crowe nodded his approval, patting Sheppard's arm. "Welcome, comrade!" Sheppard felt himself tighten up, inwardly sighing as Crowe left it at that, with no follow-up comrade kiss.

Abruptly serious, Crowe walked away to talk to others of his men, stepping over corpses as if they didn't exist, and almost as an afterthought, called over his shoulder. "Get some clothes on, slave, we need to be out of here in two minutes!"

And that was one order Sheppard had no intention of disobeying.

-oAo-

Furnus Loryeffi studied papers and maps that lay scattered over his desk, squinting in the dim light thrown out by a single oil lamp that hung from the rope slung across the roof of his tent. It was a hot and humid night. He wiped perspiration from his brow, and then batted at moths that fluttered about his head attracted to the light. Every so often, one would fly into the flame and the scorched stench reached his nostrils. Nothing though interfered with his concentration. This was his allotted time to peruse the latest information that came in from scouts. Shortly, he would leave the tent, and begin his evening inspection of his troops. His routine each evening. Barring attacks on the residences of High Senators, that is. All that Furnus did was with military precision and correctness, for Furnus Loryeffi was military, through and through.

He lived and breathed military. As a youth, in recognition of noble blood flowing through his veins, he had entered the army as a lower officer. It had been in recognition of his ability, however, and not his birth, from his fighting skills through to his use of military stratagems that had seen him rise to Madacran's foremost rank of High General. And all before forty years of age.

Though even he would be first to concede the point that as strategist he'd been little tested. Much of his expertise had been only theoretical. The Wraith, still hibernating, had made few incursions on Madacran in the last four hundred and fifty years. With no Ancient Gate, small raids were rare and virtually nonexistent. His fighting skills were unquestionable however. The Wraith teeth at his belt confirmed that. As did the graves of pirate Travellers strewn across the Madacran desert.

Following his last and final promotion, the question that was bantered among his few but close friends? 'Where to now, Furnus?'

He was ambitious? No. His predecessor had retired and had joined the Senate. But politics were not for Furnus Loryeffi. And if it were, he hadn't the funds. Even after twenty years serving as officer. Family estates had long been sold off, to meet court fees and legal costs to defend the name of his brother, and to meet the demands of compensation for the families of those supposed victims who'd died at the hands of the tried and convicted Ocallus Loryeffi.

At least, it had been a quick end for his brother, beheaded as befitted a noble... and Furnus shook his head at the memory, for not a day passed without him remembering the injustice of it all.

So, out of principle, he could never follow others of his predecessors to become a magistrate or a lawyer either. The legal profession had left such a bad taste in his mouth. And he reached for a beaker, sipping at ivis, as if to literally wash that away.

The irony of his new position in the army wasn't lost on him. Madacran and the rest of Pegasus were enjoying those peaceful years between Wraith feedings, so his place as Head of the Guard had been primarily that of peacekeeper, of policing, of maintaining Madacran laws. Yesterday, he had found himself a breaker of all those laws. A usurper, a _failed _usurper, but a usurper all the same, of the maker of those very selfsame laws, the Government of Madacran.

And... he would be prepared to do so again, even if it meant the laying down of his life, even if it meant the laying down of lives of thousands of Madacrans. He was determined to wipe out all the evil, all the rottenness that now manifested itself in Madacran society.

This was his 'where now?' His destiny?

He could never become a lawyer or a politician to change the system. He wasn't that much of a schemer or a liar, of that he was certain. But he could use his hands, his mind, his _soul_ in other ways.

Memories of boyhood days on his father's estates came to him. And the knowledge, that, in order to curtail the virulent spread of the weed, spixosis, required its clean uprooting immediately upon flowering and its instant destruction upon bonfires. To simply pull at the head and leaves, now and then, thereby allowing the noxious seeds to develop, had little effect. It was all a matter of timing.

Furnus had given Madacran his silent unquestioning loyalty for these twenty years, and had even forgiven the injustice meted out to his brother. It had, after all, never directly been the system to blame for the death of Ocellus, but one Dochelimar Selemon...

So this was revenge? Possibly. In part. Furnus was man enough to admit it. But it had occurred to him, that his loyalty and dedication were misguided, for it was loyalty and dedication to the system and not to the people of this world. He had looked at the people of this world one day, and had suddenly seen poverty and hardship. The system needed changing. And it was his 'where now?' to change it. And it was the small uprising of Coppron and Joherner three days ago that told him the timing was right. The people of Madacran could be relied upon for their support. Yes, indeed, the timing was right now...

He became aware of a shadow at the tent's entrance and the flap being lifted aside. His aide, Athlum.

"Yes?"

"My lord? You wished to see the slave? From Lord Recito's?"

"Yes... yes, of course, bring him in," instructed Furnus, making some effort to straighten up his papers, flicking aside the debris of dead moths.

The dark haired man, now dressed in the red tunic of the regular soldiers, stooped through the opening. Those eyes again, scanning all around him. Furnus was certain, he'd make an excellent spy or scout. Born to it. But… the hold of the shoulders as the man straightened... No... Here was a leader of men. And those eyes... here was a man who would judge a situation first before acting. He would not be one to deal out authority when it was not needed. Furnus had met too many generals with too high a self-regard for too small actual aptitude, meting out orders and punishment simply because they felt their position demanded it.

The slave had already understood to show Furnus respect and stood to attention with hands clasped behind his back.

Furnus leaned back in his chair, pressing together his fingertips, musing at the figure before him. Nodding to himself in approval. He had done well to single this man out.

"You find the clothing to your liking?" smiled Furnus, recalling the last time he had seen the slave.

"Red's not really my colour, General."

"You say, my lord," reprimanded the aide.

"No one is my lord," retorted the slave, flashing the aide what could only be described as a look of defiance.

"Now, now," intervened Furnus, leaning forward, swiping at another of the dead moths, "it is simply deference to my rank. But... today... I am perhaps without rank. Perhaps, today, I have forfeited all claims to such honours. Today, I am nothing more than a brigand and all those who serve under me are now wanted men and murderers. Today, you may now call me, Furnus. And pray? What do we call you?"

"John Sheppard. Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard."

"Lieutenant Colonel... I am unfamiliar with the term. That is rank also?"

"Sir," affirmed the man with a slight nod. Then Furnus was right. He had once been a soldier.

"He is also known as Joherner, my lord. The woman-" Joherner? Here? Before him?

"You leave her alone!"

"She was Recito's whore!"

"That was never her fault! I told you to lay off her!" The two were squaring up to one another and clearly had had words before. John Sheppard... Joherner was showing no fear of the heavily armed and armoured Athlum.

Furnus stood, hands upon his desk, wondering if he were going to be compelled to physically separate them. "Gentlemen! Please!"

"Apologies my lord..." said the aide, eyes downcast. And even this Joherner, breathed out his rage and seemed to calm down, seeing that this outburst was quite unseemly. Furnus came round to the front of his desk, half-sitting there, hands holding the wooden edge.

"So... you are also Joherner? The dissident Joherner? We were informed that he was dead."

"Yeah, well... I'm not dead... and I'm not a... dissident either... I just happened to be there... at Selemon's place."

"And not a slave either apparently?"

"No. I'm not a slave either."

"A soldier of rank? A Traveller? Using an incognito? Perhaps… a _spy _even?" Furnus casually folded his arms, raised an eyebrow but intentionally kept that note of accusation there in his voice. It was, after all, a possibility, though he knew the man could never admit it if he were.

Joherner seemed to consider this, and folded his arms too, but it was more of a body hugging hold, sensing perhaps that this was his cue for a fuller explanation, sensing perhaps the danger of being called a spy…

"My ship crashed. I got separated from two of my friends. I was injured. Jaleen... the woman healed me. Joherner was the name given to me by those who helped me out. I went to the Selemon villa hearing that one of those friends had been taken for a slave against his will. Coppron organized a small diversion so I could get him out. We didn't pull it off and things sort of escalated out of control. I'm not a dissident. I'm not a spy either. Just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Well, how do you view your situation now? Do you still wish to find your friends? I have just attempted to overthrow the government of Madacran. I have failed. Selemon still lives and has declared himself the new High Senator replacing Recito. We were told he would be attending the... function. He was forewarned by someone. This is why the woman was questioned, though I assure you, she will not be touched again, especially as you say that she is a healer." He twisted round and reached for his glass of ivis, indicating that Joherner could help himself to the decanter if he so wished. The man declined but relaxed a little, putting his hands on his hips. Furnus always believed that such an awkwardness with hands was usually a good indication of someone who hated inaction and one who would not rest easily while there was work to be done. He was liking the man more and more.

He sipped at his wine and continued. "Half the army, loyal by tradition to Selemon's family, loyal also to the bribery of moton and bonuses funded by his wife's inordinate wealth, have pledged him allegiance. That makes us all rebels here now. That makes us all fugitives. Would you not say that you are still... in the wrong place at the wrong time, as you put it?"

The man said nothing. But Furnus could see from his eyes he was attentive to all that was being explained to him.

"You still desire to find your friends? I can see that you do," noted Furnus, placing down his glass with slow deliberation. "_If_ I permit it." He'd decided now to make an important proposal to Joherner.

"There's that," replied Joherner, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"Athlum. Tell Joherner, if you would, of the latest situation in Madacran City."

"The city is now inaccessible. It considers itself under siege. There are barricades at every road. There are curfews in place. We believe there are now five thousand troops billeted there, quadrupling its protection of three days ago. Many of them defend the residence of Selemon himself. The villa is impenetrable," reeled off the dutiful Athlum.

"I imagine in these circumstances that you would find your quest to rescue your friends nigh impossible," continued Furnus. "And if you did ever succeed, your ship crashed? You wish, no doubt, to leave Madacran? Then you are relying on help from other Travellers? We are at war, Joherner. And once word gets out, no Traveller will visit Madacran in order to trade. We will no longer be deemed a safe haven."

He studied Joherner. The man was subdued now and looked down at his feet. He felt pity for the man, sharing his sadness, regretting it almost that it was he, Furnus, pointing out the options now closed to him. But it was all necessary, if Furnus were to persist with the request that he intended to make.

"I will give you your freedom. And the woman's also. I will give you permission, Joherner, and that name will always be the one that I call you, I will give you permission to walk out of here a free man, to do whatever it is you need to do to find your friends. But Joherner, the people of this world have not that luxury to walk away from their situation. They are not free. They too are perhaps in the wrong place at the wrong time... And then comes a stranger, a man by the name of Joherner, who gives them hope... a glimmer of hope... his name becoming a symbol for fighting for that freedom... How can you honestly say that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Perhaps it was always meant to be? How can you honestly walk out of here, Joherner, and turn your back on these people? Would you honestly walk out of here a free man, Joherner, and not be burdened down by, a slave always, to the thought that you had abandoned that fight that you began, inadvertently or otherwise? Why not stay at our side? You cannot easily go to the aid of your friends. So why not stay at our side and fight with us? When we are victorious, then it will be safer to seek out your people. Help us to win that victory."

Joherner had turned to the tent canvas slightly, concealing his expression in shadow but Furnus saw that he bit his lip and his reply came hoarse and broken, hesitant and doubting. "On my world... our people's policy... is... not to take sides... to negotiate peace."

"Compromise?" asked Furnus, almost incredulous. "Peace? With those that condone slavery? With the evil that is our government that permits its populace to suffer in poverty, while they indulge in gluttony and immorality?" And Furnus shook his head unhappily. "No. No negotiation or compromise. Eradication." As the weed spixosis. "How can you ever deny that our fight is not justified and right?"

Joherner made no response. His eyes looked towards the tent flap... his way to his escape... eyes that showed he struggled with the uncertainty Furnus had planted there... struggled with some inner deep down conflict... Furnus, who believed himself to be a sound judge of character, also believed he knew what the man's answer would be. And it would be simple... with no attached demands... pure and simple self-sacrifice... This man would not act any other way.

Joherner's voice came low and husky. "I'll stay."

Furnus stood, relieved, and offered the man his right arm, nodding his head. And the man glanced down and understood, though it might not be his custom, and they clasped arms, Furnus feeling the strength there. Again, he would have expected nothing less.

"I hope it is a decision you will never regret. I hope we will be victorious over our foes."

"So do I."

Furnus released his hand and making his way over to his desk, began to busy himself scribbling out permission slips and orders regarding his latest recruit.

"I am giving you rank of honorary captain. You may collect armour, weapons and supplies from stores. You will have your own tent and Athlum will find you a servant."

"I don't need one," said Joherner firmly.

Furnus glanced up, surprised.

"It is customary for an officer to have a servant," he explained, and then he caught Joherner's look. "I stand corrected. I beg your pardon. We are seeking to abolish slavery, then… no man should be forced to serve others. No. No. You are right. You see, even I will need time to adjust to changes. At least, then, take the Recito woman under your protection and into your accommodation. There are those who dislike her presence among us." And Furnus felt gratified that his aide winced at the remark.

"She's married," explained Joherner bluntly.

Of course, why should that surprise Furnus that Joherner was also in possession of such high morals?

"As you wish, I'm sure Athlum would be happy to supply her with her own tent adjacent to yours," he replied, continuing to write, enjoying the further discomfit of his aide.

"Your duties for now, will be to assist on my staff. To be seen at my side."

"PR?"

"P. R? I do not understand."

"You're just showing me off?" asked the man, raising an eyebrow, actually disappointed he was not being asked to do more.

And Furnus stood, smiling, handing over a slip of paper, remembering again the exhibition at Recito's. "They'll be plenty of fighting shortly, of that I am certain."

And Furnus indicated that Joherner should leave now and as his newest captain was led out by the aide, a thought came to him.

"Joherner?"

"General?"

"We wear red tunics to conceal our wounds."

-oAo-


	9. Chapter 9

Madacran

Chapter Nine

"Captain Joherner?" And that was going to be harder than ever getting used to. Whenever anyone called him Joherner, it was always on the tip of his tongue to correct them. John Sheppard. And now it was Captain and not Colonel. But he knew he'd be wasting his breath. Not that he minded the demotion. But these people were wary of him, moved around him like… damn, like he was some god, some deity who was going to bring them their salvation. He hated the revered looks that made him out to be something special, something he wasn't. Nothing but an accident, pure chance had brought him here.

"Yeah," he nodded. The man carried a pile of stuff topped by a plumed helmet. This was his uniform then. He made way for the man at the tent's entrance, where he'd been standing, watching Loryeffi's campsite, watching Jaleen and the other women cooking at a fire.

The man spread out the uniform on the low bed and stood, hesitating, "Your woman will help you dress?"

"No, she won't. And... she's not my woman."

"Then... you wish for me to assist you?"

"I'm sure I can figure it out." Though he wasn't sure. A quick glance to the bed showed him a whole heap of straps and buckles and metal pieces. And he wasn't sure if he even wanted to wear any of it.

"It is usual for an officer to be dressed by his aide," persisted the man.

"I'm ok with this. There's no hurry," he said, trying to put this off... like till tomorrow... or the next day.

"General Loryeffi wanted me to ensure that it fits."

"Joherner?" Jaleen was at the tent entrance, carrying bread and a bowl of something steaming on a tray.

"And see... my supper... so the general and you will have to wait..." said Sheppard, very politely but very relieved for the lucky appearance of an excuse, showing the man the way out. And yeah, the smell of savoury something was suddenly making him feel hungry.

"Your uniform?" noted Jaleen, setting the tray down on the small table by the bed. "You should really try it on. It is approaching the time of the general's evening inspection. It would please him immensely if you would present yourself as he passes by." The two of them were ganging up on him now? "I have helped Lord Recito to put on his uniform on several occasions. Let me-"

"No!" surprising all at the firmness in his voice. Himself included. But Jaleen had dressed – and undressed him too many times now. Too many embarrassing times now. "The guy here..." inviting the man's name.

"Vaez." And the man bowed.

"Vaez says he'll help." And Vaez looked smugly at Jaleen, so smugly that Sheppard could nearly change his mind.

"Oh... I understand..." and Jaleen picked up the tray. "Though the armour fits over the tunic," she explained, showing that she really did understand. "I will keep this warm for you." And Sheppard sorrowfully watched his meal depart the tent, back to the campfire. He smiled a crooked smile at Vaez then, who smirked back, with an expression that showed he understood also. The renowned and famous Joherner is a little shy of women and getting himself all naked, huh?

"Let's get this over and done with," growled out Sheppard.

"Certainly." And Vaez handed him a red neck scarf. "The shoulder strips chafe at the neck," he explained and then set to, busying himself over the bed with the strips of metal and thick leather laces. "This isn't just ceremonial but for your protection. We have vast numbers joining us now. Many will, unfortunately, not have the luxury of being supplied with armour."

"Yeah, I'm grateful," said Sheppard sarcastically. He'd seen the other guards. The armour looked too damned heavy and bulky to do any serious fighting in. Arms and legs were left bare and vulnerable. Necessary he knew in Madacran's heat. And any more armour would really slow a guy down. He tied off the kerchief, feeling too hot already under the canvas.

"The first time of fitting is difficult," continued Vaez. "There is the assembly, and adjustments have to be made. Thereafter, it becomes easier. The body then slips on in one piece, much like an over-tunic." Sheppard watched the man deftly threading the laces and knotting the pieces of metal together.

"What's the metal?" He'd never come across this bluish gold before, and he might as well be conversational, might as well get some idea of what the armour could actually do. Very few guards carried the Traveller guns, but it'd be nice to think the armour could stop a bullet.

"Cer naqualon. It is an alloy of illion and-"

"Naquadah, yeah, I know." Sheppard had guessed. So Madacran had access to Naquadah. If he ever made it out of here... "Loryeffi wears a breastplate," he added.

"Ah, if you make it to general... perhaps you aspire that way?"

"Too much damned paperwork," he mumbled. "Tell me about Loryeffi." Some intel on the guy he was about to work for would be good too. "He seems young for a general." Certainly for one on Earth and he couldn't imagine it was much different here.

"True," and the man shrugged. "But he has proven to be exceptionally gifted and talented. Perhaps it would have been different if the others had lived..."

"Others?" Sheppard was sharp to question the man.

"We have an academy in Madacran City specifically for the gifted and talented. Loryeffi attended as a youth. One fateful night, the dormitory was set on fire, killing all who slept there in the flames. Very tragic. We lost a whole generation of able young men. I am certain we would not now be facing our current situation if they had lived. Our government, for one, would have consisted of a more superior calibre of person. Are you ready?" And Vaez indicated to the completed armour on the bed. A waistcoat made of layered strips of metal across the chest and back that laced up, with further strips over the shoulders. "It's rather heavy," Vaez said ruefully, "it's best if it is slipped on in one move."

Sheppard nodded and turned round, offering his arms each in turn as Vaez heaved it up with a grunt and hitched it up to his shoulders. The man stood back and examined his handiwork.

"How does it feel?"

"Like you said. Heavy." It weighed a ton and was damned uncomfortable. He was suddenly missing his tac vest.

Vaez came round to the front and set about tying up the dozen or so laces there.

"But Loryeffi survived?" quizzed Sheppard.

"He'd been sent home with the sickness. It seemed all rather convenient at the time... that's why his brother was first suspected of the arson."

"His brother?"

"Yes. His brother was accused and found guilty and executed. The family lost their fortune trying to defend him... but... I need to adjust the laces at the back... they need tightening." Sheppard obliged by turning round.

"Hey! Not too tight. I need to breathe you know." It felt like he was being shoehorned into some corset.

"If there is too much free movement, you will get sores."

"Right... " He'd have to live with that then. "Loryeffi's brother was innocent?"

"Oh, I think he committed the crime. But the family argued mitigating circumstances. He was weak and had come under the influence of another, who had supplied him with drugs and those had sadly altered his mind. He had been such a good boy... They said that Selemon had actually put him up to it, simply because one of the victims had turned down Selemon's sexual advances but nothing could be proved."

"The same Selemon we're fighting?"

"Yes. The same... There. The rest is easy now." Vaez handed him the belt, with scabbards attached for a dagger and short sword. Sheppard awkwardly wrapped it round his waist. It wasn't as easy as Vaez made out. Twelve inch studded leather strips hung down at the back and at the front, like a skirt and got all tangled up with the scabbards. Vaez straightened them out for him.

"You'll get used to it. They protect your-"

"Yeah, I know what they're supposed to protect." Remembering Recito's hall where they hadn't made a very good job. Not if the attacker was determined enough.

"You have a dagger and sword?"

"In the corner." Sheppard had dutifully gone and collected them from the armory earlier. Vaez handed them over, and he placed each in their scabbards. Everything was getting heavier and heavier. He'd seen these guys training in full kit and he wondered if he shouldn't too.

Vaez was flapping and shaking out the creases of a red cloak, and then set about fixing it to the back of the shoulder straps of Sheppard's armour.

"So all this... is just Loryeffi trying to get his own back?"

"Oh no. Loryeffi is above all that. He is a good man that sees after his own and has always served Madacran and its people. We are right to fight Selemon. He is an evil that needs to be expunged. In government, he seeks nothing but power for its own sake. Rewards only those that will advance his own personal position. And the arson was only the first of his crimes." Vaez picked up the helmet. "His brother, Jocimus, mysteriously went missing. Some say the two had been lovers."

"Selemon? With his own brother?" And Sheppard pulled a face.

Vaez nodded. "Shortly after the disappearance, his mother was raped and strangled. There were always rumours that Selemon was responsible for the deaths of both. His father, despairing, sent him away. When he returned, years later, his father was found poisoned. Selemon said it was suicide. No one could say otherwise. And there have been many disappearances since and he has never been called to account."

"Not the sort of guy to meet on a dark night, huh?" And Sheppard, being taller than Vaez, lowered his head so the man could place the helmet there. Sheppard hated it instantly. Side pieces bit into his cheeks and it was so heavy it felt like it was going to take his head off.

Sheppard lifted up his chin so Vaez could fasten the chin strap for him. "Hopefully, on a battlefield, he shall meet his match and justice. I see you do not like the helmet. Too ornate for you perhaps." It did have a couple of those vulture birds, the secrids, embossed on the sides and the red plume was as good as a target on anyone's radar. "But my cousin makes these and they come with the guarantee that no one will be able to slice open your brains," said Vaez with a grin.

"Thanks for that. So it doesn't matter if I damage my neck and spine wearing the damned thing."

Vaez chuckled. "Go outside and show your woman. The females all love a uniform."

"I told you, she's not my woman." But he went out, ducking under the tent flap, aware of the precarious balance of the helmet on his shoulders. He straightened up. And flushed instantly. Vaez had been right. He could see it in Jaleen's eyes from across the camp fire. He turned away.

To his left suddenly. Shouting from the direction of a cluster of soldiers. All congregated round a wagon. He couldn't make it out. There was no threat judging by the way they were standing. Most even seemed subdued.

He frowned. It didn't feel right somehow. "What's going on?" he asked Vaez who'd joined him at his side. But Vaez asked his own question of Jaleen who'd now come over and they both turned to her.

"Is not our new captain impressive?" Vaez asked proudly.

The sound resembling that of a cracking whip pulled Sheppard's attention away once more. Jaleen was saying something like noble... a leader... he didn't hear, prising off his helmet, almost tossing it to Vaez as he stormed over to the men, pushing his way to the front of the group.

A man, stripped to the waist was lashed to a wagon wheel. Being whipped by an officer. His back lay open, cut and bleeding. As the officer raised his arm once more, Sheppard stepped in and wrenched the whip from the officer's hand. The man stumbled back, surprised, having lost momentum, and then grabbed for his sword, believing he had been attacked by one of the onlookers.

"Don't even try it," seethed Sheppard. Yeah, he was angry, so angry he could nearly give the guy a taste of his own medicine and even lifted the whip in his hand a fraction in warning. The officer's hand stayed on the hilt, hesitating, uncertain what to do next. He recognised Sheppard as a fellow officer. As Joherner.

"What did he do?" minced out Sheppard. To deserve this punishment. And Sheppard nodded down to the injured man still gasping for breath. "And this had better be good."

"Amongst other lapses of duty, he came in last in the morning run. It is customary. A lesson to the others. Five lashes to those so slow-"

"That's it?" he couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"It is the only way to train the slaves." Ex-slaves. Loryeffi had freed them all the day before.

"Untie him. Give him a decent meal, and then perhaps he'll run faster." It hadn't gone unnoticed by Sheppard that the man's ribs were clearly visible.

"Captain Wenum was simply doing his duty." Sheppard spun round. Loryeffi. Athlum and a couple of the other military bigwigs standing behind him. Loryeffi smiling slightly. "You were assigned, I believe, not as a common brawler, but as an officer, to assist in leading my men."

"I am." And Sheppard pushed the whip into Loryeffi's chest, forcing the general take hold of it, because he hadn't simmered down yet. Athlum went for his sword, but Loryeffi waved his aide down.

"And in that duty, I'd advise you not to beat the crap out of your volunteers, otherwise there won't be an army to lead." With that Sheppard walked off.

"Captain Joherner?" Loryeffi called after him.

Sheppard stopped and turned. He guessed he'd simmered down enough now to do respect. "Sir?" Though he also guessed he was about to get fired. And he'd just been fitted out with a new uniform...

"I stand reprimanded once again. They'll be no more whippings in my army." Loryeffi handed over the whip to Athlum. "Burn them all." And he came close to Sheppard. "You are a good man, Joherner. Nothing you could do now would ever make me doubt the wisdom of accepting you into my army. I know that you will never let me down." And he tapped at Sheppard's chest. "It suits you well, this uniform. You see our emblem?" And Sheppard followed the General's gaze up to the flag flapping in the breeze above the camp. "A feeding secrid. It may eat the flesh but never touches the soul." And he placed a palm over Sheppard's heart. "What is important is what lies beneath the uniform, is it not?"

-oAo-

The next morning, he started running again. Early. When the mists still clung to the pines of the small valleys of the Gamsco foothills. He kept a steady pace at first and it felt weird... the last time he'd run like this, had been on Atlantis...

And it felt weird too, that so close to the desert of Madacran, there could be such a place as this, twenty degrees cooler, where his breath came out in clouds and he could be glad of the chill of air against his clammy skin.

But it felt good to get back into some sort of training. The perimeter of Loryeffi's camp. The old estates of the Loryeffi family he'd been told. A landscape of ivis plantations that had fallen into disrepair, with crumbling granite-like terraces, moss covered and overgrown with brambles, gorse and ferns. Untended pine woods, thick with saplings, and strewn with fallen trunks and branches. Animals, like sheep or goats still ran in herds, providing extra provisions for the army. They also trampled a maze of trackways and paths along which, Loryeffi's men went on their long training runs, and in the distance, through the trees, Sheppard could see one such group. He kept clear of them finding his own track to run.

He needed to be alone.

And ran harder than ever.

Yeah, he was beating himself up and didn't know why.

He was going to do himself an injury, he figured out that much. The ground was uneven, holed by rotten tree stumps, hidden rocks and shrubs that snagged at his feet. He tripped more than once, but didn't care, keeping the pace hard and fast, enjoying the challenge of clearing obstacles like some hurdler, feeling the pain burn into his lungs. He didn't care. He just wanted the rhythm of the run. The steady thudding of his feet on decades of decaying pine needles.

This was crazy? That he was trying to be alone to kill the pain of loneliness? Punishment? What was it he was trying to punish? Life wasn't going how he'd planned? Dr. Pat Cornwell would be proud of him.

'You think I'm some sort of control freak?' he'd asked her once.

And she'd just smiled.

'I'll take that as a yes.'

'I think control is very important to you. In my profession, however, I'm not permitted to call anyone a freak. And I'm certainly not about to call you one either.'

He ran through fern fronds that spread high over his head, slowing him down as he batted them aside, showering him with dew, soaking his tunic already sticking uncomfortably to his skin with perspiration.

Suddenly, a pool. An abandoned well with some rusty iron machinery on one bank that must have once served as a pump. Overhung with a single aurora tree.

Jaleen. Bathing. Standing knee deep in the water. Back to him. Who hadn't heard him, though hell, he must have been making enough noise. He stood still. Trying to catch breath. Heart pounding loud and furious in his ears.

This was dangerous for her. To be on her own like this. There were those in the camp, Athlum and his cronies included, who considered her easy, couldn't take their eyes off her. And yeah, he was staring too… the way her long hair, washed and wet, clung to her bare back…

He pulled back into cover abruptly. And this was crazy too. Gawping like some school kid. But she'd seen _him_ naked often enough. It was nothing. He could be grown up about this. He could either cough discreetly to let her know he was there or just keep quiet and watch out for her without her knowing.

A sudden noise in the undergrowth to his right made him turn.

So he wasn't the only voyeur, huh? That's the trouble with the colour red. Too easy to pick up in the green. He'd got to give Loryeffi a lesson or two in camouflage.

He stealthily made his way low through the bushes, willing his feet not to make a sound, keeping his eyes fixed on the man's leering face and was swiftly at the guy's side, grappling the man's arm into lock before the guy could even blink.

He heard Jaleen splash out of the water as the man called out, groping with his free arm for a knife held at his belt. "I'll relieve you of that, I think." And Sheppard flung it left-handed far into the undergrowth. Out of the corner of his eye, he was relieved to see Jaleen quickly slipping into her robe.

"Where I come from, it's not considered polite to watch ladies bathe," he hissed into the man's ear, now wrapping an arm round his neck, holding the struggling man tight. "You deserve a broken windpipe at the very least but since I'm in a good mood this morning, I'm feeling benevolent. Now scram, and don't let me see you within a half-mile of her again." The man nearly fell with the force of Sheppard's push away from him and staggered off, white-eyed, crashing through the ferns, eager to get away, no doubt, before Sheppard had a chance to change his mind.

"Thank you," said Jaleen, breathless, who'd now hurried the thirty or so steps over to his side of the pool. "I thought... I thought you were going to kill him."

"No. Scare him." It'd been easy enough. "You should be more careful. It's not safe…" He flushed.

"I thought if I came early and far from the camp, I would not be disturbed. It is not easy to find privacy," she replied, almost apologetic.

"It's pure chance I came by when I did. I'm supposed to be protecting you. I can't if you don't tell me first where you're going or what you're doing."

"I'm sorry," she said, those brown eyes looking down.

"Hey, I- " He hadn't meant to give her a lecture. But it'd come out that way. He reached forward and lifted her chin. "Don't…" Don't what? Don't look at him at way. Don't make him feel this way. And he thought his breathing had calmed down. She'd not dried and her robe clung damp to every damned curve of her body. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, wanting this to be more than a touch as much as he did. He pulled his hand away sharply, letting it fall uselessly to his side.

Her eyes sprung open. Disappointment. "You can… if you want…" Kiss her. Take her. That would make him no better than the other guy.

"No. No, I can't," he said softly, looking away into the tops of the trees. Anywhere but at Jaleen. "Get your stuff. We'd better head back."

"Joherner. John-"

"Look, this isn't going to happen." Hands on his hips now. "And we're not going to speak of this again." Huh. Another one of those lectures. But he'd been stranded in a world beyond a time dilation field once and had made love with Teer. And it'd been needy love. He wasn't about to do that over. Not with Jaleen.

She touched his arm and he turned looking down at the hand, then at her face, looking into his with concern, holding his gaze. "What is wrong? What is wrong with this? I offer myself freely. It is not under bondage of slavery. Recito... Toplon even. Loryeffi has freed the slaves in his camp. This is free will. Something that I have chosen to do. Under a new bond, that of friendship. Companionship. Unconditional. I expect nothing in return only friendship. How can this be so wrong? I sense your loneliness, Joherner. I sensed it the second time that I healed you. I am sensing it now." He looked away to the tree tops again. "What is so wrong? You have a need that I may fulfil. You are ashamed? Embarrassed? After what happened at Recito's? What is wrong? Is this not the way of your people? You believe you should have more self-control? You have a strong will. How can anyone question that?... Joherner?"

He swallowed hard. "You deserve better." Was all he could say. "We have got to go," he repeated hoarsely. He really didn't want to talk about this. Hell, he'd _never_ wanted to talk about this.

"Yes. Perhaps. But, Joherner, how can I assure you that I would not feel... used? We won't speak of this again unless you so wish, but... if you should ever change your mind... I will never refuse you, for it is my belief that I have found the best that I... _deserve_. And what of you? Do you not deserve better? If you remain on Madacran, do you intend to remain womanless forever? There is no one waiting for you on your homeworld, is there?" He guessed that she'd sensed that too.

"But you're married," he countered.

"I was given to Toplon in slavery."

"He'd..." and Sheppard coughed, his voice broken when he continued. None of this he was comfortable with. He really did want to return to camp. Right now. "He'd do anything for you. I... I can't... I can't come close." And he couldn't hurt the guy either.

"I think Toplon knows he has lost me... after all these years..." she shook her head, sadly. "But time moves on and we have to change, don't you think? And you took my side with Athlum – oh, I know... you'd do that for anyone..." and she smiled. "So much of a gentleman. But I told you. Unconditional. I expect nothing in return. Respect is enough. I know that you offer that... And you are right. I _do _deserve better. I do deserve for once in my life to be selfish. Let us tell Toplon that_ I_ think the world of someone else. That_ I'd_ do anything for this someone." She suddenly fell quiet. Looked to the ground, as embarrassed as he was, flustered by her confession. "I'll get my things now," she said abruptly. And as she turned to leave him, Sheppard caught her by the arm suddenly, pulled her to him and kissed her.

And he didn't feel like he wanted to let go for a long time yet.

-oAo-

Seldric joined Loryeffi's army. It wasn't his fight. But someone had to keep an eye on Joherner. Because Joherner still owed them a fucking ride out of there. And Toplon came too. He was looking for his wife, weren't he? They were among the first. Hundreds, thousands joined them. Slaves now took courage to run away and join the new army. Took courage to come to the side of Joherner.

And Seldric... yeah, Seldric, felt proud... because wasn't it them that had gotten Joherner into all this in the first place?

But all Joherner ever wanted to do was rescue Rodney McKay and get home. You could see it in his eyes sometimes. Seldric wasn't that fucking shallow.

And Joherner wanted to rescue Kelsoe too. Now why would he want to do that?

'He needs help... I promised... I promised myself I'd take him back to... my world...' he'd said to Jaleen one day. Seldric always stayed close so he'd overheard. He liked to think that he and Toplon were Joherner's bestest friends. And Seldric always liked shared glory. Would never turn a piece of that away. Always got them extra rations anyhow. If this carried on there never would be a need to leave Madacran. They'd be the new nobility. Lording it over others. They'd make this fucking Selemon their slave. See how he liked it. Executing him would be too good. Cut off his balls and make him eat them... yeah...

And Joherner's world? His home that he wanted to return to? This Atlantis? He never talked of it. But Seldric had heard the stories. Every kid of Madacran had grown up hearing the fucking stories. That's all they were, fucking stories. All the Traveller ships had been ancient ships. All old. Everything to do with the Ancients was old. Ancient ancient. It all had to be crap, didn't it? It all had to be crap what the Ancients could do. It all had to be crap what Atlantis could do. Otherwise... why didn't they ever kill all the Wraith? Otherwise… why didn't Joherner ever talk of it?

Yeah, as a kid, Seldric had dreamed of Atlantis. And when they'd found the jumper, yeah, they probably could have gone there. But now... nah... Seldric would stay put. He'd retire and lord it up. He'd get himself some concubines... no... not slaves... they were never going to have those anymore... no... Seldric was fucking friends with the one and only Joherner. Concubines were going to flock to Seldric's side. He was going to have to fucking fight them off. He'd stop fighting Selemon's men, and fight off women... yeah... that would be real nice, that would... And he'd make sure he got a good stock of moton. Fuck Loryeffi saying he'd ban it. No... no... fuck moton. A gent, a friend of Joherner's would get himself cer moton, top notch, best brand... oh, what that could do to a guy...

And Toplon, the stupid lovesick trowsy calf, only wanted his wife back. Hmmm... not much of an aim in life... He'd even gotten them a married couple's tent. He was gonna have problems with that. She was a freed slave now and could choose who she wanted to be with. And she had eyes only for Joherner. You could see that. And fuck, yes, wouldn't he make a good catch? What with status _and _good looks. No, Seldric wasn't a fucking Clada. But you'd have to be blind not to see the way the ladies swooned after Joherner. Very fetching indeed, when rigged out in that full uniform.

And Seldric had tried telling Toplon, let her go, you can't fight it. And Joherner being like he was, all moral like, was probably fucking clueless... and this guy led men into fucking battle? But Toplon respected him for all that... ah, respect... who fucking needs it?

But who would have thought a fucking Traveller would have made a Madacran soldier?

They'd quickly captured the main settlements of the Madacran world. Socan and Seismo. Touar and Imkasus. Fevrum and Tapacava.

Razachan.

Razachan, Joherner took himself with five hundred men, when General Loryeffi lay wounded after Tapacava.

There was now only Draulan and Madacran City itself to take.

And it was all looking good for the good guys. But not for Joherner. Fuck, he'd got the girl, hadn't he? They'd been round the camp fire. Joherner always came and chatted with his men of an evening and shared their jokes and ate their food, enjoying copos and dried kligtins... no, fuck... who the hell _enjoys _dried kligtins?

And he and Toplon had got talking... 'If you find your friends, if Rodney McKay survives the taking of Madacran, though this will be doubtful as all force will be directed at Selemon's own villa, if Rodney McKay cannot repair your craft, then... there are no immediate means to escape from this planet. It will be some time before the Travellers land once more. These are the uncomfortable truths that are facing you.'

'I know.' And even in the light of the flickering fire, you could see it... the way that he bit his lip... not liking the fucking sound of those uncomfortable truths one iota.

'What will you do, Joherner?'

'We could still get rescued. Our people won't ever let us down.'

'It has been a long time now... '

'McKay... McKay said we might be here for the rest of our natural. I guess... I'll just have to get used to the idea.'

-oAo-


	10. Chapter 10

Madacran

Chapter Ten

Meria had grown tired of him. And Rodney hated that. It wasn't because his pride was hurt... well, some... but because Selemon had been right. That she would grow tired of him. But it was Selemon's fault anyway.

Worry. It was all down to worry.

On one occasion, Meria had even laced his ivis with moton to see if he might still... satisfy her. It'd worked, but his heart just wasn't in it and the whole sordid episode was over in five minutes, so... she gave up. She understood though, that he'd felt his manhood had been betrayed by the fact that she could have resorted to such low tactics. And she confessed that she'd abandoned the idea of secreting cer moton from her husband's quarters. Cer moton. The very best. Guaranteed to keep a man going for twenty four hours. And a part of Rodney winced at the idea.

She still allowed him to sleep with her. Finally rejected by her husband, she needed his company. And Madacran City was at war. And losing. There were no slave markets now for her to replenish her stock. Perhaps war was a good thing for Rodney then.

Actually, come to think of it, there weren't that many slaves, period. Most had run away to join General Loryeffi and Joherner. Now_ there_ were two men Rodney would like to shake the hands of.

It was just like his childhood all over, however. Chosen by the wrong team. The losers.

Team...

Worry...

He'd get ulcers for sure. And nowhere in this place was there a decent doctor. You simply mustn't get ill in Madacran City. Ever. And that was bad. That thought was bad. That thought alone was enough to give him ulcers. Not that he was one of those sort of guys who went running to the doctor if he so much as got a splinter in his finger. The other slaves talked of Jaleen, a healer, but she'd gone, vamoosed, disappearing on the very same night that Lord Recito had been murdered along with half his cronies, when Selemon had assumed leadership of the Senate, or rather, what was left of the Senate. Even Selemon's own personal physician used the basic commodity of a jar of leeches and tried to ascertain your humour... yes, well, Rodney's humour was... depressed. There was no other way of putting it.

Team. Worry. Team. Teyla and Ronon. And what were they doing now? Given up on the search for the occupants of Jumper One? He _assumed_ someone had figured it out by now that they had actually_ gone _missing? How long? He'd... Nonononononono, he couldn't have forgotten. He'd been counting. Days and weeks. When had he stopped counting, for heaven's sake? How could it ever have meant so little to him that he'd ever stop counting? And how long since... since he'd last seen Sheppard? Lost count... lost count... Oh, come on! Dr Rodney M. McKay PhD here! How could he have possibly lost count? He was finally going mad? As mad as Kelsoe?

This just wasn't him. Life was like that childhood prank. His ninth birthday party. When Jeannie's friends had been bribed to come. Blindman's bluff. Round and round they'd turned him in the darkness. Of course, the clue should have been the door opening. He cottoned on eventually and removed the blindfold. Another room and no one there... the door now locked. Shut out from his own party and cake.

He was somewhere else. Hadn't been able to stop it. No Team. And now, not even Sheppard...

Sheppard. Sheppard.

Selemon's contacts had never found him. Sheppard. Assumed dead. Buried in a pauper's grave somewhere. Out in the desert for the blue bugs and the secrids to feed on. Like Rosie. And Rodney squeezed his eyes tight shut against that image, squeezed it out of his head. But it would never go fast.

Worry.

Alone. Without Sheppard. Without Team. With the mad Kelsoe and the even madder Selemon.

And they were at war. And a war can cause worry. Worrying when Madacran would be next. Though they had a pretty good idea. After Draulan. When Draulan fell to Loryeffi and Joherner, Madacran would be next. And Rodney imagined that he would be slaughtered with the rest of Selemon's household. Would die alone. And when Atlantis finally traced them to Madacran, they'd be no one left from Jumper One and no one to tell the tale of what had become of them. Jeannie would never know...

Selemon laid a hand across his shoulder, making Rodney cringe and his flesh crawl, and said shoulder sagged low as if taking on a life of its very own and wanting to run away.

"You believe in immortality, Docky?"

"Hmm?" Rodney squeaked. Worry. Whenever Selemon was near.

"These are... stasis pods?" asked Selemon, sliding his free hand smoothly over the glass covers of one of the museum's exhibits.

"Yes and I've explained-"

"So much of my collection is redundant, yes, I have listened to all your... _explanations."_He wasn't buying it. Rodney was in so much trouble. He knew Selemon well enough by now. Though there was no clue from Kelsoe exactly how much trouble in was in. The captain stood to attention nearby, staring into a space somewhere over Rodney's head. What was he thinking? Had Selemon brainwashed him somehow? Another one of those drugs?

"Stasis pods," continued Selemon, "their use is to hold one's body forever until such a time you may be revived. Immortality. In our culture, Docky, immortality is to live with the gods when we die." And Selemon sighed. "But I expect you are like me and value present life as dear. Just to live to the next breath, eh, Docky?"

And Rodney, being a genius, didn't miss the threat there.

"Kelsoe tells me our little project isn't doing so well."

And then Selemon breathed close to Rodney's ear, breathing on his hair. He was going to nibble, to lick? Oh, please don't! And Rodney so wanted to pull away. No. No. Not pull. _Run._Then a whisper, purring and seductive, and Rodney's flesh crawled even more, sending Rodney shivering. Some part of him, the intelligent part surely, was telling him to run? Then what was it making him stand rooted to the spot in horror? "I need this, Docky. I need this machine to be working on the battlefield at Draulan. This is how we ensure that we all live."

"It's... it's not ready." He'd been stalling. No way was he ever going to allow such a technological weapon, a beam device, to be used to kill mere foot soldiers. This was going to be his contribution to the cause. And yes, he knew he was handing Loryeffi his victory on a plate and he knew it meant dying in ignominy among the ruins of Selemon's villa at the hands of Loryeffi's men but at least he knew he'd died with some purpose to it all.

"Kelsoe says otherwise."

"What?!" The sneak. Rodney threw him a look. But still the man watched the far wall, unmoved. How could Kelsoe possibly have known? Kelsoe had been nothing but a Lantean cleaner? Oh... Oh... crap... Selemon... sounding him out, plumbing depths... and Rodney had just given himself away... oh, well done, McKay! Selemon could read him like a book.

"Then it isn't true. Docky! How can I trust you?" and Selemon released Rodney, pretending mock hurt.

He then lowered his mouth to Rodney's ear again. "Here is how. You like children, Docky? Of course, you do. Who doesn't like their sweet innocence?" And Rodney hated those slimy undertones, but he wasn't about to contradict Selemon.

"Well, for every hour you delay in preparing this machine, twenty of the little dears will join the immortals." And Selemon, raised his head, adding airily, "though that may be a blessing, but I'm not going to argue philosophy here. Kelsoe has strict instructions to ensure that the deaths are as painful as possible. And quite honestly, Docky, if your delay is simply out of some squeamishness over killing rebellious slaves, is it not better that they die bearing arms rather than babes in arms?" And Selemon chortled at his own sick pun. "So... Rodney, tell me again, is our little project ready? Can it be transferred to Draulan in the morning? Or has Kelsoe, here, really got to give you a demonstration of how Madacran's finest soldiers can conduct a massacre right before your very eyes?"

And Rodney shook his head bleakly. "It's ready. It was ready two days ago." And now Rodney was handing Selemon victory on a plate. Well, he hoped he choked.

-oAo-

This was kinda weird. How there could be so many men? Yet... there was this sort of silence.

The flap of flags and banners in the hot breeze. The occasional braying and snorting of the trowsy beasts ridden by officers. Armour and shields and weapons that creaked and clanged as soldiers fidgeted, waiting for the sign to move forward. A low murmur of voices as sergeants, and Joherner, made last minute inspections of Loryeffi's men, offering words of encouragement to those who faced their first battle and sharing banter with veterans.

But... it was still silence.

Each man to his own thoughts. Past life and imminent pain. Death and immortality.

Joherner chose not to think. He could get involved with practicalities. He could tighten and straighten armour on a youth of fifteen and hope it saved the boy's life and hoped he could blank out the pale face that stared at him from beneath the helmet, a face that might not live through the next hour. He damned well hoped he could blank it out, otherwise he'd go crazy. He could grip a toothless old timer by the hand and hope it wasn't gonna be the man's last touch with humanity, and make a mental check that the guy had actually remembered his sword.

For himself, he chose not to think. Or hope.

But when he glanced along the long line of soldiers, when he scanned the distant town of Draulan with its own line of men some one mile away, the thoughts came flooding in, making him question yet again, making him wonder yet again, how this wasn't his reality. He might as well have gone right on through to a parallel universe.

When they had taken Fevrum, and were checking out the town for hostile forces, they had entered a villa, unique he'd been told, with its foyer completely walled with mirrors. He'd caught his reflection there. Stunned for an instant. He'd never seen himself in full uniform. The cloak worn off one shoulder. The metallic breast pieces. The studded skirt. Leather sandals that strapped up his legs. A beard even because he'd never gotten the hang of using their cut-throat razors. The helmet.

Joherner.

And not John Sheppard. Apart from the eyes that gazed right back at him... lost...

Had he gone mad somewhere along the way? Gone off into some crazy world because a Wraith had fed on him once? The face was right in the mirrors but little else. Not even his thoughts. He was leading a rebellion. The cause was justifiable but it broke all Lantean protocols to aid and to guide only, allowing indigenous peoples to ultimately sort out their own problems. It was going to end up in bloodshed and... he'd inadvertently started it all. Much like waking up the Wraith.

He felt that what he was doing was right. But... this wasn't him. The John Sheppard he knew lived on Atlantis once, a million miles away. Surrounded by... friends. 'Give it time, Joherner,' Jaleen had said. Heck, that woman understood him. Could she read his mind? It wouldn't surprise him. She called him Joherner though she knew his real name. He was Joherner now. Detached from all around him. An automaton. Doing what was right. Trying to sort out an impossible situation. And no way of sorting out his own.

Lonely.

He and Jaleen had finally made love. He couldn't help it. It was pure basic need. With no real enjoyment as such, thinking of the betrayal of Toplon as his hands explored the secret parts of her, as he sweated out the frenzy of this selfish love. Afterwards, he'd slipped out of the tent in the early hours, leaving her sleeping, and punished himself with a five mile run, letting the early mists surround him. He was lost and alone, condemned to a life out of his control, condemned to a solitude surrounded by people who depended on him. He was different now. This was how things were going to be. Events had taken hold of him. He could change nothing.

Nothing could never replace those deep friendships he had left behind. He could get along with Seldric and Toplon well enough. And Jaleen... but it just wasn't the same. Rodney. Somewhere in Madacran perhaps. Though Joherner didn't know that for sure. Teyla and Ronon... Nothing could ever make those friendships go away... nor the yearning to be back in them... Time wasn't ever going to do that. He'd never have thought he could be so inflexible. Army training always meant you could be dropped in anywhere and immediately strike up friendships... and... he tried his damnedest to go with the flow. But every other person he met... well, he'd been placed on that pedestal... nearly worshipped as a god... Loryeffi's new weapon against Selemon.

Lonely.

And he had thrown himself into Joherner even more vigorously trying to forget. Though he hated all this killing, just to change things. How far do you have to go to change things? Was it really fair of him and Loryeffi to ask these people to lay down their lives? Who did they think they were? Gods? He never wanted the people of Madacran to do this.

So there was a part of him that couldn't even be Joherner. A man caught behind a mirror.

And these people were worth fighting for? Dying for? Was he always a sucker for the underdog? Rodney, the misfit scientist. Ronon, a stray. Teyla, as head of the Athosians... yeah, a sort of … damsel in distress. And he inwardly chuckled at his own choice of words... yeah... Teyla... damsel...

"Joherner."

He had reached the vantage point where Loryeffi and his staff would direct their army. The General slid down from his trowsy to speak with him. Joherner never rode one of the beasts like Loryeffi, preferring instead to fight alongside his men.

"All is in readiness?"

"As ready as it's ever gonna be."

"It is fortunate that I am not a jealous man, for the men love you. You have achieved so much for us. We shall be eternally grateful."

"It's just training and planning, sir." And he made it impossible for Loryeffi to tell what he was thinking, shielding his expression behind the field glasses the man offered to him, one of the rare pieces of Traveller technology owned by Loryeffi.

He scanned the opposing side. They were evenly matched. Numbers and strength. Previous towns had been taken by skirmishes only. Small parties taking streets one by one. The sort of fighting Joherner was used to so this had naturally been the way he trained his 'volunteers'. Draulan was going to be different. Selemon, for some reason, had decided to meet them with a full army, face to face, on an open field. Joherner had read all his battle histories whilst at military academy, so he knew a thing or two about field manoeuvres. Things weren't necessarily a lot different on twenty first century Earth, except... they had tanks, big guns and covering air fire. Ok... so perhaps a big difference then. With Draulan, he was going to bow to Loryeffi's better judgement on how to run things.

"Training and planning, Joherner? Oh, I think not. I think not. On this occasion you are most definitely wrong. Our current achievements are solely a result of your inspiration."

"And some of my incredible luck, sir?" grinned back Joherner, lowering the glasses, trying to be friendly like, as always, even if he didn't feel it.

Loryeffi laughed at that.

"Please, Joherner, please take full honours. It is yours and yours alone." And he took Joherner by the shoulders, turned him to face the men, held up a hand for a salute that began soft and then took hold, resounding through all the ranks, through all the lines of men, through the entire army, echoing across the field to Selemon's men, sending up flocks of startled birds from near-by trees.

"Joherner! Joherner! Joherner! All hail Joherner!"

"Hey, no... not me..." murmured Joherner.

He was uncomfortable with all of this and Loryeffi saw that, slapping him so hard on his back he could have nearly fallen over. And Loryeffi was still laughing as they both returned their attention to the front.

"After Draulan, we move onto Madacran. And when victory is ours, what will you do next, Joherner? When you find Dr. McKay, will you return to your world?"

"We have a saying where we come from, don't count your chickens before they hatch." And it was difficult for him to keep his voice level and steady.

"It's true, but hope? Everyone knows what they hope for in life surely?"

"I hope to live through the next couple of hours." And that's how Madacran had been for him. One thing at a time... Pacing himself... waiting... not daring to hope... ever... Putting all hope away... somewhere protected... And would he leave? Now that he'd brought these guys this far? If it'd been right to take up their fight in the first place, then it must still be right to stay?

"I'm never going to get anything out of you, am I?" smiled Loryeffi. "Tell me, Joherner, what do you make of that?" And Loryeffi guided Joherner's arm to point the glasses to the west.

Joherner's vision blurred as he focussed in.

Rodney.

"It is some sort of mechanical device, is it not?" asked Loryeffi, puzzled as hell.

For a second, Joherner didn't register the question asked of him. Something in his chest gripped hot and tight. His lips mouthed the name. Rodney.

Rodney on the opposing side. Aiding Selemon. Why? Rodney? Why? He had to have been forced. Had to.

"Joherner?"

And he snapped his brain into gear to try and figure this thing out. Something big and round and metallic. Being positioned by at least twenty men, herding trowsies that pulled a low cart carrying the device. So heavy its wheels sunk deep into the ground. And a smaller cart near-by. Carrying a ZPM.

Crap...

"You have to..." He couldn't say it and handed back the glasses. But there was no alternative. There was going to be a bloodbath otherwise. "You have to turn and run."

"What?" And Loryeffi looked at him as if he'd gone plain mad.

"Call retreat! Now! Or lose the entire damned army!" Had he got to spell it out?

"Joherner?"

"Believe me when I say I know what I'm talking about!" And he was sprinting for the bugler. He was going to do this himself if Loryeffi didn't. Calling over his shoulder. "Get your men out of here and now! And fast! It's a machine. It's a damn machine that will kill you all!" The gut feeling there that it was already too late.

Rodney. Rodney, why are you doing this?

Little warning.

A hissing, sizzling noise as the air became charged with electricity. Aware of those faces in the front line. Upturned. Afraid. Afraid. And death reflected in those faces. And they didn't even have a chance to scream as the flash of blue consumed them. Clods, body parts spurting up from the ground ahead of him. He instinctively threw himself down. Hell! Hell! Everything hitting, pounding, jerking his prone body. The buzzing and dazzle horrendous as it seared a course through the earth, thudding, vibrating only yards away, setting his teeth on edge, exerting a pressure so tremendous on his skull, he was sure that his brain would explode. Face in the dirt, choking, coughing on the fumes of burning carbon, swelling his lungs tight against his armour.

The beam passed by.

He dared to raise his head. Blearily watching over his shoulder, helpless as the beam eliminated, there was no other word for it, Loryeffi and his staff from the very spot Joherner had been standing seconds earlier. Watching, as the beam slowly and methodically proceeded on, slicing up the earth, sending panicked men running in all directions, their cries insignificant above the deafening grind of the beam... men dying... carnage... the ground ploughed and buckled, layered with blood and broken and heaped corpses...

He was up again and running, over and around the mess and mud, trying not to think of what lay at his feet. He could feel the charge lifting the hairs on his body and wondered if wearing his metal armour were safe, noticing now its heat and new tarnished brown colour.

He found the bugler boy dazed and wandering.

"Call me up a unit!" he yelled, ripping off the clasps of his torn, stained cloak. It was going to get in the way of what he'd got planned.

"Sir?"

"I need men. Give out the call!" Clutching at the poor boy's tunic, trying to shake some sense into his shocked brain. The bugle went to the lad's lips and the baleful noise just made it above all others. Three dozen men, his own, including Toplon and Seldric were at his side. Pale and horrified. He was grateful that they hadn't turned tail and ran, though even that wasn't an option. The beam was systematically slaughtering those who fled or stayed on the battlefield alike.

Joherner was already running forward towards Draulan as he gave his order. "We have to take out... the machine!" What else could he call it so these guys would understand? Hell, he didn't even know what it was either. They all nodded their understanding and followed. He waved them on.

"Take to the scrub!" Far to the west where mangy low twisted trees grew. Their cover.

"Seldric, throw me your gun!" He intended to be first if he could and Seldric was already lagging behind. He turned, running sideways briefly, catching the gun at his chest. They'd be a control panel. He'd just blast it out. Anything to put a halt to this massacre. Too many men... too many men dying... And Rodney? Could he rescue him? Hell, what if one of the others got there first? They'd possibly kill him, not realising who he was.

The field became a blur at his feet. Skirting, leaping bushes. The rhythm of his thumping heart felt in his ears. Breathless. Perspiration. The longing to throw off his heavy armour. His men speeding, crashing through the undergrowth alongside or close behind. Hopefully they wouldn't get spotted. Not until they reached the opposing line. This was suicidal. Hopefully they wouldn't get spotted and the beam turned on them. But this run was going to take nearly ten minutes... too late... too late to prevent further killing. Rodney... Rodney... turn it off... turn it off, damn you!... He can't know what he's doing... he can't know...

The bushes, the ground, his men's faces, all coloured blue as the beam behind them continued to take its toll, the noise of rending and the screaming of men still constant over the noise of his feet pounding the earth.

Trees thinning and Joherner and his men veered off to the right. Breaking cover. The surprised faces of the enemy. Firing at the faces using both hands. His own face set in grim determination. Hating this murder too. Toplon following his lead. Cutting a clear strip through for others to follow. Swords drawn against them. Soldiers advancing in with realisation of this attack. And still Toplon and Joherner taking them down with blasts from their weapons. Cold. Ruthless.

The machine seen above the enemy heads now. A couple of yards. A sizzle. And the beam suddenly stopped. So that was something. Orders shouted to give it extra protection. But Joherner and his men were there. Clanking and yet more shouting as swords engaged. Joherner rounded the machine. Ducking quickly as a sword whizzed by his head and shattered against the casing. The control panel... where...? Where...?

And Rodney shouting at him... where was he...? Where...?

"Sheppard! It's you! Sheppard! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Rodney in the confusion of the mass of scrapping men, being dragged away from the machine by Kelsoe, being pulled to safety. Rodney struggling against those arms that held him tight as Kelsoe and a couple of soldiers bodily heaved him away. And Joherner hesitant... Rodney or the machine... no... the controls... he aimed and fired and ducked as pieces flew off in all directions.

"Sheppard! Omega... Delta..." and a whole load of other codes... "the ZPM!" And Rodney knew it'd all be Greek or whatever to the Madacrans. Wrecking the machine's controls would not be enough. Rodney was giving him a shut down code for the ZPM. Something permanent. To deplete its power. He couldn't take the gun to it. Too unstable. And Joherner swivelled round, relying on his men giving him the cover he needed. Found the keyboard. Forced to use the gun as a club against a guard who'd suddenly clutched and pulled at his hands. Tapped the keys and watched the orange light fade. Toplon tugged at him now... they had to go... And Rodney was lost from sight in the tangle of battling men... gone from him again... time to go... firing into the bellies of men and watch them fall... leave Rodney... like Weir... leave Rodney like Weir... and he looked back one last time... Rodney... gone...

-oAo-

Kelsoe kept quiet as always and watched.

He saw detail. The way that Selemon's mouth twisted in fury as he surveyed the wrecked machine. The High Senator had christened it Ghojan. Chaos. Now it lay before him, destroyed.

He saw irony. Chaos destroyed in chaos. The death machine... dead.

He saw detail. He had seen the the way that each man had fought. A face contorted and arm muscles knotted with effort as the sword was driven home. Flesh. Sweated, dirtied and bloodied. A gun raised, straight and true. An executioner face there. Another face twisted. No hope in the eyes. Hands grasping at a wound spurting out life blood. Slow motion. A broken sword. A face horrified knowing that death would now follow. Sword against sword high in the air. Lips that curled round screams and cries. That he didn't really hear. His mind registering sound as sight, through a distant haze. Detached.

He remembered that Dr Cornwell had said that this was his madness. Only she wasn't allowed to call it madness. There was some medical name. And she gave him pills. And said he should go back to Earth.

No. He wasn't mad. He saw detail. And he saw wholeness, completeness, entirety too. When was that ever madness? And the entirety of the Draulan field had been death. The entirety of existence was death.

And what did it ever matter if people had died today? They were all going to die... eventually. God would see to that... the entirety of existence relied on God making sure that they would all die... eventually.

Like Rosie...

He'd seen hope once in the scientist McKay's eyes. And he had watched that hope die. There could never be hope with God around.

It was God that needed to be killed. Not men on battlefields. And he felt some stirring of opposition to Selemon. Selemon had gotten this wrong. He'd gotten the wrong idea about killing _men_...

No. Selemon had hoped, with Ghojan to take over the Universe. He'd hoped that the scientist would learn how to adapt the machine into something, better, bigger, yet more spectacular. And hope had died for Selemon too, replaced with cursing the name of Colonel Sheppard. But it was never the Colonel's fault, reasoned Kelsoe, but God's. Selemon should see that.

And he was sure that Selemon was resourceful enough to find other means to conquer the Universe. And then, when he did, Kelsoe would find God there... somewhere... and kill him... It was what Kelsoe had been born to do. He was humanity's avenger. Born to avenge the whole of humanity...

He saw the detail of a childhood memory... a street where the wind blew, sending grit into his eyes. He'd wiped away his own tears, as his mother, oblivious, dragged him up to the Church porch. They'd taken chairs at the back, embarrassed with their lateness. She was always late. She'd had to work a cleaning shift early on, on account of Kelsoe senior being a 'no good drunk'. Dom hadn't known what a 'no good drunk' was exactly. But he knew that his father beat him and his mother, and reeked of beer. A lot. Dom had sat quietly on his seat and listened to the sermon. And then had squirmed on his backside some when it got all so boring. God was everywhere. Everywhere in the Universe. God was so powerful, he had even made the Universe. Then why had Dom never seen him? But only... his dead, dying son on the cross, suspended from the ceiling. An instrument of torture hanging from the rafters of the house of God who is Love. That scared the small Kelsoe. Red painted blood dripping from the wounds made by nails. Blood dripping from the crown of thorns over His face. The agony that they called Passion. And often, attending Church, he hardly dared look up. God cared for humanity. Loved them. But did not even save the life of his own son... God was the same as his own father. 'No good.'

God cared for no one. The Wraith. Rosie. Disasters. Wars. He allowed it all to happen. The Universe would be a much better place without God.

And Kelsoe watched, impassive as Selemon struggled to contain his anger. But this wasn't the Colonel's fault. Nor even was the death of Rosie. Though Kelsoe had been real mad at him at the time. Though... no... he still couldn't forgive him. He still felt he could kill Sheppard. Sometimes. When life was less hazy. When he saw more detail.

No. This was God's fault.

"It cannot be fixed?" Selemon shot at McKay.

"No."

"You are certain? These wires... surely they are simply hanging loose? They can be repaired?" His voice getting higher and louder.

"Perhaps, yes. But without the power of the ZPM, it'd be useless." And Kelsoe saw the small detail of smugness in the scientist's eyes.

"What did he do?!!" screamed Selemon, pacing a small circle before the machine. "How...?"

Omega. Delta. McKay had given Sheppard the codes. Kelsoe remembered the detail. But nothing mattered. They were all going to die anyway.

"Well, I keep wondering that too. He has an advanced ATA gene. That must have been how it was done," lied McKay, looking Kelsoe's way, praying Kelsoe hadn't understood. But Kelsoe had understood. Had understood perfectly. But nothing mattered. They were all going to die anyway. Unless Kelsoe got to God first.

"Do you know how difficult it was to find a ZPM?" Selemon could not believe this bad luck. See, Selemon. You need to find God and kill him. No more bad luck then.

"Yes. Hm... Yes. Actually, I do." And Kelsoe heard the relief in McKay's voice that he had been believed. A lot of detail flooding in here. Kelsoe had always understood that McKay had been able to augment the power of the ZPM, abandoned by Travellers who believed it spent. McKay could do it again but wasn't saying so.

Selemon stood still and sighed, adjusting his toga, all messed up when he'd lost his cool. "Now Loryeffi's army has been defeated, perhaps we may resume trade with the Travellers. We may be fortunate and acquire another ZPM. Until then, repair the Ghojan and occupy your time further to try and discover, Docky, some other means to power the machine." And Selemon placed that friendly conciliatory hand on McKay's shoulder that McKay hated so much. "I have every confidence that you can do this, especially with Kelsoe, here, as encouragement. Similarly, I have every confidence in both Joherner and John Sheppard being captured. If they haven't been killed already. We will find them. We will find them."

-oAo-


	11. Chapter 11

Madacran

Chapter Eleven

Up in the forested foothills of the Gamsco Mountains, north of Socan, where once lay the lands of the Loryeffi family, fires burned still.

"Jaleen!" cried Toplon. His voice carried as an echo among the tall pines. With no reply.

Jaleen...

Once this had been the principle encampment of the General's renegade army but now Sheppard surveyed a scene of utter devastation. Ripped tents and scattered supplies lay charred and smouldering. One lone trowsy limped and bayed forlornly round the body of its calf. A continual buzz rose from swarms of blue bugs, and secrids, disturbed by the approach of Joherner and his men, flapped, agitated, as they fed at mutilated corpses. Men, women and children alike.

"Jaleen!" Toplon continued to call to the trees. Fearing she had perished but hoping she'd escaped, he ran, checking the ground. Body to body. Others too, searched for loved ones.

Sheppard looked on numbly without moving. Not that he didn't care but there was just too much hurt here to take in. This had all been done for freedom. In his name. He'd tried to change things but was it ever worth this sacrifice?

Stench of the bodies. Vomit rose choking into Sheppard's throat and he swiped a soiled hand across his face and nose to disguise the disgust that he felt. And desolation. They were too damn late to warn those left here. The injured. Families who had come with their slave husbands. Slaves who could only offer help to cook and run errands, who could not fight. A handful of guards. All innocent. Every one of them.

He remembered a Hawk medic run in Afghan. A market place bomb set against army personnel vehicles. The locals had born the brunt of that too. The same carnage. And Athosia after that first Wraith attack. And Michael's experiments. He felt utterly sick and tired of it all and looked to the tree tops, where grey smoke drifted, wondering if he could ever stop this heart ache.

Toplon hurried upto him, eyes still scanning the surrounding bushes. "I cannot find her, Joherner! You think perhaps she has escaped? If they have taken her... you know what would happen... Joherner! What do I do?! What do I do?! I cannot live without her!" The man, so normally stoic wept out his anguish, his sobbing added to those who had found their families among the dead. Sheppard stared at him, shocked still, finding it impossible to hold back his own tears, and then... took a step forward and hugged Toplon... it was all he could do to comfort the man... no words... and he sort of felt grateful when the gesture was returned.

"We will still fight on, Toplon!" said one of the sergeants, defiantly. "Will we not, Joherner? We can still fight on?"

"You say what you like, Cognum! But I'm fucking outta here. I ain't fighting no more," said Seldric, savagely kicking a broken basket out of his way.

Sheppard released Toplon and patted the man's shoulder. "I... I don't know... what to do anymore..." His voice came low and broken.

"You wait for all this to simmer down," said Seldric. "They'll drop the guard on McKay. We'll get him out of Selemon's clutches. We'll find Jaleen and we'll all leavein the space craft. The five of us. That's what we're gonna do. End of fucking story. Happy ever fucking after."

Perhaps Seldric was right. Perhaps he should let Seldric decide what to do next...

"No! No!" said another of the men, "you can do what you like, Seldric! But we can't come this far and turn back now! The wrongs will still be there. If the cause was worth dying for three days ago, then it is still worth dying for. We owe the dead that much."

A low murmur rose from those men at Sheppard's side who weren't seeing to the dead.

"Joherner? Say we continue to fight and we'll do it. Say you'll lead us in spite of everything and we will follow you."

Sheppard sighed. "We need burial details... and... we still have to warn the other garrisons," he said quietly. He wasn't avoiding the request to lead them exactly. These were simply things he _could _plan. Things he did have answers to. They had already withdrawn the small forces that had been left to guard Tapacava and Razachan. They numbered a paltry one hundred and twenty men. There were no supplies. They relied on the generosity of homesteads and farms, and what could be found hunting. They couldn't possibly last long. Fighting would have to be reduced to nuisance tactics. Ambushes here and there. Nothing that would impact. But what else was he to do? Follow Seldric and hide his head in the slums of Madacran? Like the man said, they had come this far.

"And perhaps others may even now join us! We can do this Joherner. You can do this! Joherner!"

"Yeah! Yeah! Joherner! Joherner! Joherner!" went up the cheer.

And he watched the secridsstartle and take to the air, quickly finding the thermals in the blue sky high above. He could never stop what was going on in Madacran. No more than he could ever stop the Wraith. The task was beyond human. But they believed in him. So... it looked like he had little choice.

-oAo-

They reached the tree line. Thinly spaced spindly birches with something like Earth gorse beneath, that grew to the height of a man. Cover enough. But then they needed it. Scouts sent out indicated that the lower slopes were full of Selemon's men. They were virtually surrounded. After weeks of resistance, they were pissing off Selemon's troops, attacking supply wagons and depots. On a couple of occasions, after nightfall, shielded by darkness, even the larger garrisons had been their targets. Now they were paying the price, the undivided attention of all of the forces of Selemon. And the only escape was forwards over the mountains rising high abovethem. Or do the unexpected and take on those who gave chase.

As they made progress, the trees thickened into more of a mixed forest with predominant pine. With banks and dips of brown bracken and heather. Drifts of fallen leaves and branches. The smell of damp. A thick mountain drizzle in the air.

Sheppard had trained them well. Nothing like a brag, John. But he felt a stirring of pride. Most of these survivors of Draulan had been nothing but men of servitude and knew little of soldiering. Yet here they were, using all available cover, moving noiselessly over the low scrub. One group running forward whilst the second group watched their six. The first group dropping down for their turn to guard whilst the second moved on past. Leap-frogging.

Sheppard slammed himself against a tree, clutching at Seldric's gun. Watchful. Ears scanning for noise other than the low rustle of his own unit. Breathless. Time to move again. Pulse still racing. Dry throat. Swallowing hard. Hating the odd chinking made by his sword at his belt. Another tree. Pausing gratefully, eyes following the descent of those in front. He chanced a lookupwards into the tree above. Bright yellow leaves. Some fluttered down around him. It was autumn here? He hadn't realised. On the desert-like flatlands of Madacran itself, the season was always... hot. It was autumn and he'd lost all track of time... how long he'd been on this world...? Too long...

The sound of speed in the air.

A short feeble groan. And a man fell dead only two yards away. Joherner backed off from the tree, horrified. One of Selemon's. You could always tell. Their uniforms were always in good order.

The man lay face down. A knife in his uncurled hand. Another in his neck. Blood spilling out of his nose and ears. Sheppard spun round... The enemy were so close? Well, this one was. And he'd allowed that to happen? He could have been killed.

Seldric stood up from undergrowth. Finger to his lips. Beckoning him down again and Sheppard dropped instantly, alert that there was a second man that only Seldric could see.

The musty leaves close against his mouth and eyes. Not daring to move. Too shocked anyway. A few moments. The drumming, pounding in his temples slowed. The wood seemed silent again. Seldric had moved on to track down the other assailant. A cry. But Sheppard stayed put. Uncertain whether the coast was clear. The cry though could have been Seldric's. He raised his head a fraction. Twisted round to glance at the dead man. Perhaps he wasn't dead after all? The guy's helmet lay all crooked. A balding head and steel-grey hair. But Sheppard couldn't see his face. In that last moment, had he cursed to have come through so much and not seen old age? In that last moment... had he the time to make peace? Perhaps this was still his last moment. And he was thinking of everything... everyone... always...

Seldric again. Who made 'danger over' hand signals to others hidden in the undergrowth. Who shuffled back to Sheppard on his stomach. "Sorry there, Joherner. Fucking gave you a scare, eh? The bugger was about to slit your throat! Those up front say the area's clear now." They were taking care of him. It shouldn't be that way round. Not that he was grateful. They'd even said he should have stayed in one of loyal farmsteads. It wouldn't do the cause any favours if he were killed or captured, they'd argued.

"Thanks... for... "

"No problem." And Seldricwiped his blade clean on the sleeve of his tunic, took the dead man's knife and tucked both into his own belt. "It's fucking good that I didn't miss or I'd have fucking hit you instead!"

"You miss often?" He asked, getting onto his knees

And Seldric grinned. "From that distance? All the fucking time!"

Others joined them and Cognum began kicking leaves over the dead man's body to conceal it, noticing Sheppard watching him.

"You pity him? Do not Joherner. His body was diseased by the moton. And consequently, his mind corrupted by Selemon. He was as much a slave as any of us. Consider his death his freedom from torment. I send him now to be with the immortals and his soul to peace."

-oAo-

They wished they could light a fire. A light rain fell and they were all cold and wet. Hungry too, with a ration of one stale flatbread apiece. It was impossible to sleep. No blankets. Nothing for it but to snuggle into the heather and lay together close. But he was used to all the jokes that led to.

And then at midnight, the sky cleared for stars and a slight frost. The moon was large and brown. Tree trunks stood in its light as pillars and columns.

Tomorrow, they'd be fighting again.

And Sheppard wondered what McKay was doing... right now...

He drifted to sleep, dreaming of flying. Of friends at airbases. Someone gave him a crucifix as a present. McKay was there. Though he shouldn't have been. But hell, Sheppard was glad to see him. And then Ronon. And Teyla. And they were all back together on Atlantis.

'The autumn winds bring down the leaves,' someone said. 'You can never stop it. You can never change things. You can never play at God.'

Teyla? Jaleen? Did Jaleen say those things?

'Have you forgotten? It is forever. You have me in you. I am in you. Always.'

A kick woke him. Daylight. And it hurt to move, he was so stiff with the damp air. Seldric was grinning down at him.

"Time to get up, you lazy fucker!"

And Sheppard forced himself upright, grunting as he did so. "This is going to kill me, you know that?"

"What were you dreaming about? A fucking good woman?"

"You're always so nice in the morning. I hope you've cooked me breakfast," he joined in as he checked that the gun and his sword were ok. That the men were ok. As they slowly stirred themselves. "That's rashers of bacon. Eggs sunny side up. Waffles. Muffins. Coffee."

Seldric guffawed. He didn't know what half the stuff was. And they couldn't risk a fire anyway. But you couldn't blame a man for dreaming...

-oAo-

"Damn! They haven't gone off!" swore Sheppard. How could this happen _now_?

Face in the heather and ferns again, taking a look-see across the wide expanse of a meadow. A platoon of cavalry mounted on trowsies. With wagons of supplies. In the many raids on Selemon's stores, they'd managed to stockpile something closely resembling the gunpowder back on Earth. They'd laid explosives some half a mile away along a line of trees where a track ran. If these guys joined up with the main group two miles away, Joherner's small army could well be set back a couple of months.

"Fuses damp, Joherner?" suggested Toplon.

"I'll go!"

"Shit! No! Come back! Someone else..." But Sheppard didn't hear the rest, he was up instantly, slipping out of those hands that tried to pull him down, running through the bracken to relight the fuses. And making too much noise probably. Leaping over, weaving, dodging round bushes, running low where he could, using the undergrowth and trees for cover. He'd only just get there in time. He urged more speed down into his legs which wasn't easy on an empty stomach. His throat was dry. His lungs were working so hard, they hurt. His heart was pounding but he could this. He could do this...

And McKay had asked once, how many times have you volunteered for suicide missions? He was ok. He could do this. It was only him who knew how see to the fuses anyway –

It was like hitting a forcefield. Like hitting the brakes hard.

A second group of Selemon's men on trowsy.

And he was surrounded.

He hadn't seen them. They must have been hidden in the trees.

He reached – crap! – no gun, he'd returned it to Seldric while he'd laid the powder.

His sword out. He turned. And turned. And turned. Breathless. No way to go. No way to go. Die here fighting? Take on thirty of them single handed? This is the end of Lt Colonel John Sheppard? Finally?

The whites of the trowsy eyes. Reined and snorting. Hooves stalling. The smell. Hell, he should have known they were there by the smell alone. Close. Dark tangled skeins of matted hair that flinched off flies. Riders' feet that spurred the trowsy on to tighten the circle round him.

He turned and turned. Dazed by buttresses of trowsy bellies. Threatening the guards with the sword. And he was going to do what exactly?

The riders' own swords were now pointing to his chest. And his weapon sank lower and lower. A stockade of trowsy stamping and kicking. Nowhere to run.

"Drop the sword!" came the order from one of the soldiers up high, whose sword now pushed towards Sheppard's throat, forcing his head back, forcing him to nudge back into the trowsy behind. No escape. Nowhere to run.

He nodded numbly. He understood what was being asked of him. But he couldn't... he couldn't give himself up this easily.

They didn't seem in a hurry to finish him. He guessed... he guessed he was being allowed to cling onto life for one more minute.

Two of the soldiers slid down from their mounts, and one grabbed for his sword's hilt and he dumbly let the weapon go, staring down at his empty hand. The other guard held a length of rope and Sheppard watched, hardly believing they were his own wrists that were pulled to the front and tightly bound.

Why weren't they killing him? He was ready. He was ready. His breathing had eased off though his heart raced faster than ever. But he was ready. He'd made his peace with existence and death long ago...

"What's your name?" came a gravelly voice from above.

'If you are captured, never tell them your name,' Loryeffi had said. 'It would be better to die and not permit capture. But if you have that misfortune, never reveal who you are. It would give too much power to Selemon if he knew he held you.'

He thought quickly. "Seldric." Mumbling to his feet. Warily watching those trowsyhooves. Head down. His pretence at slave obeisance. Had he said that too quickly? Would they know that he lied? He'd given up the armour that marked him as Joherner way back and his leggings and tunic were ragged and dirty. He hadn't bathed for days. He ought to be convincing enough.

"Speak up, man!"

"Seldric, master." The guard, an officer bought it. Seemed satisfied. And Sheppard watched out of the corner of his eye, as the two on the ground tied the other end of the rope that bound his wrists, to the saddle of another mounted guard.

They weren't going to kill him. Yet. But there was no escape either.

"You know of the whereabouts of one Joherner?"

"Joherner?" Still looking to the ground.

One of the two guards on either side of him gave him a warning push in the back. He didn't object. He mustn't if he were going to play his part. Scared. And yeah, something was clenching in the pit of his stomach.

"Come now! You are not such a simpleton that you do not know the name of your own leader? I'll ask you again... Where is Joherner?"

"Don't know, master. Never seen him. I take orders from others."

"We hear that he always fights alongside his men!" jeered one of the guards.

"Not true."

"I think that you lie, Seldric." Damn. He should have made something up. But they probably wouldn't believe that either.

A movement from the trowsy where the other end of the rope was held. And its rider suddenly headed his mount off, breaking away from the circle, the others quickly allowing it room to leave. The slack went out of the rope, yanking Sheppard forward by his wrists, forcing him to follow.

Hell, he could see where this was leading and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. They weren't about to be convinced of anything until he'd been roughed up a bit.

He tried to brace himself, grinding his feet down into the dirt but he was going to stop five hundred pounds of trowsy steak?

The rider's hand slapped down hard on the rump of the animal, and the trowsy snorted and bucked and thudded off at a gallop, knocking Sheppard clear off of his feet. His arms jerked out over his head and he yelled out his breath as ribs and stomach hit the ground hard. A fight for that breath, a fight to bring up his knees to right himself, but his legs were whipped out behind him by the speed of the trowsy, his body twisting and bouncing off the scrub and dirt, his mind scarcely registering the ground hurtling at his face and the sound of the trowsy thumping at the earth, shutting his eyes to the agony as flesh ripped open. It was all happening so fast he couldn't even cry out.

The trowsy stopped.

He knew it would. Eventually. It'd been a long enough haul to convince him that they'd kill him if he didn't give the answer they were after. Yeah, he was convinced.

He ended up on his back, arms still suspended over his head, struggling for air, half-coughs against the dust in his mouth and nostrils, half-suffocated gasps that just reeled in the pain from cuts and cracked ribs.

A shadow fell across his body. Sheppard squinted his eyes open, still choking. He blearily made out trowsy hooves inches from his head and the captain leaning over in the saddle.

"Joherner? Tell me. Where is he?"

And that was comical. Sheppard could look at it that way. Where was Joherner? Right here. You're asking Joherner where Joherner is. Next they'd be asking where John Sheppard was. And what a stupid way to die. Had anyone ever died for that reason? He doubted it.

"Well? You want some more of this?" And the captain was just about to give the rider the nod again.

"I... I... don't know." His reply setting off another spasm of coughing.

"Speak up!"

Sheppard's face was all cut up. He could taste the blood at his lips. His tongue hurt. He was sure that he'd bitten it. His insides were sore and bruised. Hell, what did the man expect? It was nothing short of a miracle that he could talk at all.

"I don't know," he managed out, trying his hardest not to slur his words. He had to, had to if he were going to stay alive, " I don't know exactly... he moves around a lot... somewhere round here... don't know where... exactly."

Again he'd persuaded the man he was nothing more than a subordinate, not in on this stuff.

"But you know where his camps are? Of course, you do." The captain reined up his trowsy abruptly, pulling away. "We haven't time for this! We were supposed to be on the other side of the ridge an hour ago. Take him to Madacran with the others!" Others? And the captain began to ride away with his men, calling after him. "Be grateful, if I had my way, you'd be with the gods and I doubt they would be so merciful with such scum!"

-oAo-

Hours of running, pulled along behind the trowsy. A slow run granted. But a run all the same. His wrists rubbed sore and bleeding by the continual tug of the rope. Though... come to think of it... most of him was sore and bleeding anyhow.

If he could keep slack in the rope, then his hands didn't hurt so much. But then, he needed to keep a steady pace behind the animal and that wasn't always easy. It helped to concentrate on that small area in front of him. Yeah, the trowsy's backside... Otherwise, weakened by lack of food, and exhausted by the nights sleeping rough, his legs would give way and he'd stumble and the ground would rush up, tearing at his ribs and thighs. The rider would stop patiently whenever he fell, allowing his trowsy to graze at the rough pasture along the way. Allowing Sheppard to regain his breath. Which wasn't easy either with a thirst that hurt. He would lay down his head wherever, glad for the respite and close his eyes. Forced to listen to the rider drinking from his water bottle. Waiting for the inevitable jerk on the rope that meant if he didn't prise himself off the ground soon, the rider wouldn't care much if he were standing or not.

And he knew all this would happen exactly this way, because it already had, so many times before...

When evening drew in, and the rider joined a camp with other soldiers, the rope that his hands were bound to was knotted to the same rope that tied up the trowsies for the night. He fell to his knees, slumping forward, letting the shadows and coolness of the earth take him. Oblivious to his closeness to trowsy hooves, to the humiliation of trowsy urine, to his need to escape.

-oAo-

The guards pushed him headlong into the holding cell. When there wasn't even enough fucking room to sit for the dozen or so in there already. They jumped up sharp, making room and caught him before he fell. Because... well, he looked so fucking awful.

"Jo-"

"Fucking shut it!" And Tevon clamped that mouth real tight like he ought, because no way would the guards have locked Joherner in there with them if they'd known who he really was.

Cognum who held Joherner, helped him over to a wall, and Joherner slid down to the floor, trying to catch breath, closing his eyes. They'd all been force marched to the city, but Joherner looked like he'd been... fucking _dragged_. Through every fucking forest and desert on Madacran. His wrists bled from sores where the guards had just untied him. Seldric didn't do pity. It just wasn't in him. Then what the hell was he feeling right now?

Cognum was down at his side. "Any of that water left?" There was water but the food had all gone. There hadn't exactly been that much. Seldric's stomach still ached with hunger. The guards threw in a small loaf of bread and locked the door with a bang. Guess that was Joherner's ration, then.

"How about giving him some fucking space?" and Seldric glowered at those of the captives, that weren't a part of Joherner's Chosen Team, of Tevon, Unum, Cognum. The others backed off. Yeah, Seldric could still do menacing. But it was bad of him. They'd all had been rounded up as rebels, hadn't they? They were all Joherner's men, weren't they? They were all gonna be... the guards called it 'questionning'... but it was gonna be torture, gonna be an execution. They should count themselves lucky that they'd even been fed.

Joherner drank and ate like he'd had nothing for weeks, letting the water, real sloppy like, run down his beard, cramming in the bread like it'd grow four fucking legs and wanted to run away. Seldric didn't do pity. But leaders shouldn't be like this. Not after everything Joherner had done. Clothes in rags. Stained with blood. Dirty. And he fucking stank. Trowsy urine? Well, none of them smelt too wonderful. Seldric scratched at his own crotch, and then his scalp, remembering his own filth. But there, Joherner, shared everything with his men. Now he was gonna share their fucking defeat. Luck plain ran out. And Seldric had backed the wrong fucking side again.

"What do they call you, newcomer?" asked Unum. The guards still hung about in the corridor and the question was for their benefit.

Joherner, recovering, finished off the last of the water, eyed him up curiously and then cottoned on.

"Seldric. I told them my name was Seldric."

Well... Seldric wasn't expecting that... and there was some stirring of pride in there somewhere...

"Hey, that's my fucking name too!" he said, keeping up with the charade.

"But you're still damn unique. One of a kind," said someone behind him.

"You bet I am!" And Seldric, slumped down beside Joherner.

"You haven't finished your bread," pointed out Cognum, crouching on the other side.

A hunk of the stuff still sat in Joherner's hand that lay limply on the ground by his leg. Joherner glanced down, dazed, like he'd nearly forgotten it was there.

"Can't... finish... can't eat. Sort of gotten used to not eating much, I guess." Cognum nodded, understanding.

You can get like that. But you can also get sick, a deep-down sick, a tired of life sick. Joherner had probably got that right now.

"Save it for later, eh? Little and often," and Cognum gently removed the bread and laid it close to the wall, settling himself down, getting comfortable.

"It's been rough?" he then asked, real low.

"Yeah. Yeah, it has," replied Joherner. And there were nearly tears in his eyes. "I... I didn't mean for this to happen. All you..." and his voice sort of choked.

Cognum patted his leg, ever so kind like Cognum always did. "We were always outnumbered. It's a miracle we survived for as long as we did. No one thinks badly of you. We die bravely together, eh?" And he glanced up. The corridor was empty of guards now. The single oil lamp on the far wall smoked all eerie on Unum praying by the cell bars. His praying made their group go quiet. And in a room full of people, thoughts can still make you feel damn lonely.

Someone near the far wall yelled out. "Hey, Unum! Do plenty of praying for the rest of us! We need it!"

"I dunno. They've been treating us well so far. We might come through this after all," said some crazy person.

"The fucking best we can hope for is twenty years hard labour. That's the very fucking best," joined in Seldric, meaning they were all as good as fucking dead.

"You scared? We're all scared," said another. And then everyone had fucking something to say.

"Is it true, that you get an erection just before you die?"

"Wouldn't know, haven't died yet."

"And if you die, you wouldn't be around to enjoy it!"

"And women... do they... do they have a... you know...?"

"I expect with your wife it'll be the first fucking time!" Well, that managed to bring a smile to Joherner. Faint. Crooked. But there all the same. Joherner was always like that. He might have been Loryeffi's right hand man but he wasn't so stuck up he wouldn't share a joke with the men. Once he'd said it all reminded him of his... Airforce days... the... locker room... the prep room... though Seldric hadn't a clue what Airforces, lockers and preps were. And Joherner would tell of his own pranks on his old friends. And it must have been good fucking fun judging by the way that Joherner went on about it. Sometimes though, he went all sad and moody when he talked of them. He'd said only a couple of days ago, it'd been five months since he'd last seen Atlantis. Guess he was kinda homesick...

Yeah. They were all going to die bravely together. In the meantime, someone had started a competition, aiming for the piss-pot in the corner. In this fucking small space?

"Let them have their fun," said Cognum, stopping Seldric with a hand as he was about to complain, nodding to Joherner who looked like he'd drifted off to sleep. He'd relaxed a whole lot more, his shoulders drooping to a slouch against the wall, his chin dropping to his chest.

"I don't think he ever slept... not real sleep... ever," whispered Tevon nearby.

"It'd be nice to have some blankets!" And the shout yelled down the corridor had Joherner waking with a start, reaching for his side, where his sword should have been.

"Fuck you! Can't you see he's trying to get in some shut eye?!"

"It's ok. It's ok. You're safe," said Cognum, reassuring Joherner, trying to get him to sleep again. Like they were safe anyhow.

"I'm awake now."

"I'm sorry, but it's cold in here," sulked the man. They were deep underground, away from the Madacran sun.

"You'll have to cuddle up!"

"Yeah? And which one of you lovely ladies is offering some warming comforts?"

"Keep away from me! You haven't washed for a fortnight!"

"Cognum?"

"I'd rather sleep with Unum than you!"

"Then it'd be by the book and no foreplay!" said Seldric, and Joherner let out an 'ow' because Seldric had nudged him hard in the ribs with his joke, forgetting how hurt the guy might be. But it was ok. Joherner still smiled. He weren't like Seldric. They might share the same name... but oh no, he weren't like Seldric. Seldric would have let go of twenty good cuss words by now.

Two rebels, Petron and Devimos clowned around some more, holding each other tight, smacking big wet noisy kisses into the air... well, they did all smell... didn't want to get too close...

"Devimos is spoke for then. And, of course, Cognum and Unum are all fixed up. As are Seldric and Joherner-"

"Quiet, you damned fool!" It was Unum. Standing. Fucking scared. Backing away from the bars. The cell fell silent. No one dare move. You could have heard the proverbial trowsy hair fall.

"Shit!" From Tevon who sat at Joherner's feet. He'd seen what Unum had seen in the corridor. They'd all been fucking talking and hadn't heard the guard coming.

And a fucking captain.

And they both stopped beside Unum. Fucking stopped because of a name heard.

And Joherner looked straight into the eyes of the captain. Fuck! He knew...

"Shall I go and check the list, sir?" asked the guard, searching his superior's face. And wouldn't that be kinda dumb? Like Joherner would put his name on the list of captives? And these guys had won the war?

The captain wasn't replying. Why not? He knew. He fucking _knew_, didn't he? He'd turned away. He didn't want to say. He was on their fucking side?

The poor guard was nearly fucking wetting himself trying to figure it all out, eyes searching the cell, waiting for orders, sure too that the captain knew. "Which one is it, sir?" And then he got right fed up and took it into his own hands. "Which one of you is called Joherner?"

Of course, they weren't saying either. Was the guard completely brainless? It was their agreement. And it might as well have been written in fucking blood. They weren't about to give Joherner away. Loyal bodyguards always.

"Which one is it?" repeated the guard, sure of which one though, by the way the captain gazed at Joherner again, all apologetic like he was saying, I have to tell him, I'm sorry. "You think it's him, sir?" The fucking tension. Was he going to spit it out or not? Talk about balancing on a knife point. It could go either fucking way.

"No. Joherner isn't here. I think we misheard." The fucking relief...

Another captain entered. A nasty piece of work, to look at. "There's a problem?" Well, that burst the relief bubble, good and quick.

Before the first captain could check him, the guard blurted out. "We think we have Joherner in the hold!" Big fucking mouth. And Seldric's fingers fidgeted at his sides. If only he had a knife he'd shut that big mouth up. "Kelsoe needs to be told."

And if Joherner's muscles weren't tight before, they were now at the mention of Kelsoe's name. You could see him freeze at that name.

"How could that have happened? Get more guards and we'll soon have him out! Which one is it?" The second captain peered into the semi-darkness at all of them. And they still weren't saying.

"Guys..." Joherner. But Seldric nudged him hard again and this time he meant it. He knew that tone of voice. Joherner was going to turn himself in. That's how he was. Fucking self-sacrifice.

"We don't know," lied the first captain again. "Someone called a name that sounded like Joherner. That's all. We misheard. There's no Joherner on the list." He was still prepared to go along with their little game.

"That doesn't mean anything!"

Three more guards joined them. With guns. Heck, one of them was Seldric's own.

"Stand up!" They all did as they were told. Fucking slowly. Watching the guns. Some had probably never seen them up close before. But they all knew they could kill. "Back up to the wall, all of you! Hands on heads!" The cage-door was unlocked.

"Which one of you is Joherner?" demanded the second captain. They were all good. Played their part. Shrugged. Shook heads. Looked at each other in mock surprise.

"I'm not patient! We'll just shoot you all here and now!"

"We're all dead men anyway, aren't we?" From a dark corner.

The second captain snatched a gun from one of the guards and randomly shot in the direction of the voice. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! And they all shrank from the crack-noise in the small space. Devimos fell, crying, clutching a bleeding leg.

"There was no need for that!" protested the first captain, as fucking freaked out as anyone.

"No! No one is to help him!" As Devimos writhed on the floor and two of the men had stooped to tend to him. "Don't piss me around! Which one of you is Joherner?"

Joherner made a move forward. No way was he going to let them all be harmed this way for his sake. His face said all that.

Seldric shook his head. Fucking unbelievable.

Tevon murmured 'no.' But they knew they'd be no stopping him.

Yeah, like fuck...

"No! It's me! I'm Joherner!" yelled out Seldric, "I'm fucking fed up with you, Seldric! Always got to keep making fucking sacrifices for me! I'm your man! I'm Joherner!" Did he really say that? He needed his fucking brains tested. But he strode forward to the door, offering his wrists to be bound. "No man is going lay down their life for me!"

The second captain wasn't convinced. He knew who Joherner was right enough. He looked to his counterpart who wasn't convinced either.

"Seldric... don't... it's no good..."

"Bring them both out!"

"Fuck you!" And they were both dragged out, forced down onto their knees, their hands shoved to the top of their heads, the guns held only inches away from their faces.

"Seldric... don't do this..." Joherner's face real pained. Real pained. "Don't..."

He never did give up, did he? Couldn't he see that Seldric had made his mind up? For once... for once... Seldric of Madacran City, soon to be late of Madacran City, was doing the right thing by his fellow man.

"When are you gonna fucking learn? I give the orders round here! You don't ever learn, do you, Seldric?! It's me that says 'do' or 'don't' And I say I do fucking give myself up!"

"We'll soon settle this. Check their backs for scars! Joherner was wounded in the back!" commanded the second captain.

"Well... if you believe that..." began Seldric, struggling in the grip of his guards, as they hoisted up his tunic. Jaleen could never heal scars. And Seldric had been in fights of his own. He'd not always killed out of cold blood.

He sensed Joherner shiver in the cold of the corridor as his head was pushed forward and his own torn and ragged tunic was roughly hauled up.

There were two sets of marked backs.

"Take them both! Let Kelsoe decide." And their hands were bound behind them.

"Don't, Seldric..."

Seldric shook his head as they were led away.

"You'd run out of fucking miracles, _Seldric._ You just went and ran out of fucking miracles."

Toss of a coin. It was going to be down to the toss of a fucking coin.

-oAo-

"Kelsoe has informed me that we now have Joherner in custody."

"Well, good for you," Rodney muttered over his work bench, pretending to be engrossed in some wiring problem. Selemon could share his news with Rodney but Rodney still didn't have to enjoy it.

Selemon wandered over to the window, sweeping up his toga in his right arm, as elegant and assured as ever. Apparently to take in the view of Madacran rooftops and enjoy the evening sunshine that streamed in. But from the distance, from the garrison block, a couple of courtyards away, came the sound of a man screaming.

Rodney stopped what he was doing and lifted his head, listening, feeling his blood run cold.

Well, Selemon had wasted little time dispatching the guy into the hereafter, hadn't he? Oh no... now the slave rebellion was over, now Joherner was dead, Selemon would put more pressure on Rodney to complete his ultimate weapon of mass destruction. And... and... follow that through to its logical conclusion... it was only him, Rodney, only Rodney who stood between the safety of Pegasus and... chaos... and that was sort of like... yeah... pressure...

He carried on working. Trying not to show any emotion. Though his hands were shaking. What was he going to do? He couldn't carry on like this, obeying Selemon's every last whim. Where are you, John? Where are you? Because I could really do with some help here. Gone. Escaped to the mountains now if he had any sense. Or dead. Though Kelsoe was positive he had fled the Draulan battlefield.

"Kelsoe also tells me that Joherner..." And Selemon turned away from the window, pausing. One of those trademark pregnant pauses of Selemon's that so infuriated Rodney.

Rodney slammed down the fuse-box he was working on and faced up to Selemon, because he'd just so had enough of that Selemon voice, that cat with a mouse tormented.

"Oh, go on! Do tell me! You know you want to! Spit it out! Don't hold back on my account!" He'd long ago stopped with the niceties with Selemon, High Senator or no, scared or no.

"As you wish... Kelsoe also tells me that Joherner and John Sheppard are one and the same person."

And Rodney's pliers slipped from his fingers, banging to the marble floor...

-oAo-


	12. Chapter 12

Madacran

Chapter Twelve

It always comes round again, the game that they play. The taunts. The jeering. The ration spilled. It always comes round again. The kicks. The kicks. The punches. The kicks.

But he never fights back.

Tonight there are two.

He will have to suffer in silence twice over. They tell him to stand. This is always the start of their game...

They watch him struggle to his feet. It's never easy with manacled wrists and ankles, linked to a waist chain, linked in turn to the wall. And his mind is numb. Cutting out the pain where he's been kicked so many times before. He tries to ready himself, tries to brace himself, turns away to avoid the inevitable onslaught to his face.

The blow hammers into his stomach instead.

The shock curls him over, knocking breath out of him and he hits solid ground hard, as he collapses to his knees and then to his side. And all he can do is groan, defenceless now against the kicks at his back. At his chest. Wherever.

Double, double kick. And they tell him he is scum.

Double kick. And they tell him he is vermin.

His world seems like a whirr of feet. His chains rattle noisy with the dull thuds into his soft flesh. A hand instinctively goes to his head. But he takes it all. Body past caring. Bruises melding into more bruises.

The food they've brought him scatters across the floor. The soil can clatters, its contents spilling.

His half-inert body is hauled up by the shoulders of his tunic. And he's dropped hard to the ground again. A foot presses on his back. He tries twisting his head to escape the filth, but hands grip at his hair and hold him there.

"Eat! Eat!" And the concrete scrapes his battered face and the mess is in his nose and he fights the retching and wrenching at his aching belly.

They stop and pull away suddenly.

There's a third guard at the door. Absorbed in the mistiness that passes for vision. Threshold-bound. Kelsoe.

"Co... come to join in... the fun, huh?" Blood, spittle, mess dripping from John's lips. And John can't believe he had the energy to say that... perhaps he wants Kelsoe to kick him... that last final kick that might take him away from all this...

The last time he has seen Kelsoe, he had pleaded for the life of Seldric. But mad staring eyes had met his and looked beyond him... And John had known that he was finally defeated on Madacran. He should have allowed Kelsoe to shoot him in his quarters on Atlantis all those months ago. It would have prevented all the bloodshed... it would have prevented... all this...

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!!! Selemon wanted him unharmed!"

Sure... sure he did... but John's still grateful and takes his pained breaths, his humiliation, crawling to rest in a cleaner corner of the cell.

Kelsoe calls two more guards. "Half an hour! I want this man cleaned, clothed and fed! And get him shaved and cut his hair. And lock these two fools in here for a week!"

And John wants to say, 'see, there is some justice in the world,' but it's as much as he can do to lift a trembling hand to clear his face, to lean back his head against the wall and close his eyes.

Kelsoe's shadow falls across him, and it's only a reflex he knows... but he pulls in his legs away from the man and draws in his arms protectively around him. He tries to focus on his once-corporal, eyes watering from the swelling in his left eye. Kelsoe has stooped at his side.

"Did they rape you?"

And all things considered, it could have happened. He's heard that Selemon gives his men moton. And when he'd been split up from Seldric, they'd taunted him by showing him the holding cell of captured women and youths... the garrison's brothel. Jaleen had been held there... But it seems weird that Kelsoe is so concerned.

"No," he struggles out.

Kelsoe pats him on the shoulder and stands.

"See... things are not so bad, huh, Colonel?"

"It'd be... better... if you got me... out of here..." he says wincing. He could always hope...

And Kelsoe looks up dreamily to the tiny window set high up in the cell wall. To the tiny square of blue sky. "It'll all work out, Colonel. You'll see. I'll find God and kill him. Then it'll all work out."

And yeah, John has forgotten how mad Kelsoe really is.

-oAo-

A single candle gave the room an orange glow. Very little light came in through one small window, partially shuttered. There were no bars. No locked doors. He was in the slave quarters? And they'd built the new garrison next door? And as fuzzy as his head was, his mind went racing into possibilities. Rodney was nearby? Perhaps John could get a message to him? Yeah, he figured it was Rodney's turn to try and rescue _him_ now.

He vaguely remembered his history lessons. That Romans had plumbing. But he still felt surprised by the showers and urinals. Nothing special. Basic barracks stuff. But clean and fresh. And the smell of some herb that he knew grew on the mountain. He could nearly cry... facing this... it was luxury to him after the cell. After weeks of living rough.

They removed the manacles except one at an ankle that they chained up to the pipes. Like he had enough strength to try anything once they'd dragged him through a myriad of corridors. He couldn't stand for long. They hadn't gotten to the feeding part of their orders yet, so he was still too weak and in too much pain. He slid down the tiled walls with one shoulder, a move that didn't do anything for his cuts and bruises.

They ripped off his rags as he sat slumped near the drain hole. He told himself he mustn't mind his minders' watchful eyes. He was going to get clean at last. He glanced down. He was dirty all over. And his beard and hair itched. He felt revulsion and closed his eyes. Trying to kill the tears that were there. Hey, John, suck it up, huh? But he was so tired... so damn tired... all the fighting had gotten him nowhere... ever...

But perhaps this was where he was going to get raped. Perhaps that was all a part of the torture. And Kelsoe had just put the seed of doubt there... No, these two were simply doing their work.

They cut his hair and beard roughly, and he watched mesmerised as the filthy matted locks fell around him. They pulled up his chin, lathered it with the soap and shaved him with a cut throat. They handed him the soap and a wet rag and, fumbling, he attempted an all over wash of sorts, gingerly skimming over tender skin that stung. They hosed him down then. He gasped and pressed down palms hard to brace himself against the water that came cutting and cold, shivering violently until the warmth came. He guessed there was always enough sun in Madacran to heat water and he shut his eyes again, feeling so much more than grime wash away...

They unchained him and helped him out of the wet area, handing him first a towel, and then a tunic. But he couldn't hardly dry or dress, he trembled so much. The tunic smelt good reminding him of Jaleen... Jaleen had bathed him before... and now they had her in that cell... he really had got to pull round and get them all out of there.

The tunic was a thin shift affair, but with his arms so stiff and aching and his head so light and giddy, even the simple task of lifting it over his head seemed like so much effort. He needed to eat.

There was only the tunic to wear. Nothing else and that made him feel vulnerable once more.

"Hurry up! We haven't got all day!"

His hands and feet were manacled again, and he hated the soreness that came from moving again. Hated the heavy dragging weight again. A corridor. And another. Like getting up the Gamsco Mountains.

Candles on the wall. Recessed. Candles that spun crazily. Candles that sickened. Candles that sort of whizzed in a mist. And whiteness took him...

-oAo-

Vision full of legs. Table legs. Chair legs. Guards' legs. He'd dreamt a memory. Of gleaming towers. Of blue shimmering Stargates. Of Rodney being safe again. Of Roman armies. Of Jaleen being safe again. And then Seldric had started to scream...

"Do you think he'll be all right? _He_ won't like this!"

"Get him to drink and eat something."

"He'll probably only spew it all over the floor. _I'm_ not clearing it up!"

Hands roughly pulled him up to sit. His head rolled and he was sure he was going to faint a second time. The same hands offered something from a spoon and he took sips of a soup.

"Like feeding a baby! I didn't join up for this!" The other took over.

"There, he'll be fine now. You can do this yourself now? There's more on the table. Do you want to sit at the table?"

"Aren't _you _the proper mother," said his pal with sarcasm.

"No one loses by it. You know what they say he is?" Soft awe met with cynic scorn.

"Hm! A god." And the man spat. "Gods don't get caught!"

John wasn't listening particularly. Moment to moment. If he ate slowly and the dry biscuit first, he could fight the nausea. A mattress on the floor. And then he could sleep. Such a heavy limb weariness. Such a weariness...

_Jaleen stood motionless on the other side of the pool. He couldn't touch her. For some reason, he couldn't move to her side of the pool either. He thought that if he touched her, then she'd be able to move. And if she could move, then they could make love. And it was a selfish reason and he hated himself for it. But God, was she so beautiful. And for a second, he saw her body naked. The way that she had __lain __when they had last made love..._

_An overhanging aurora tree dropped blossoms onto the surface of the water. A breeze lifted the blossom into the air, played with her hair and flicked at his own._

'_I can help you,' she said across the pool. _

'_How can you? And... I don't want you to.' _

_And Seldric was standing there too. But he wasn't saying anything. So how could it be Seldric? Seldric should have been accusing him of letting them all down. 'People die helping me.' Clada. Horrie, even. 'People die around me. I'm bad news.' His mother. __Aiden. __Elizabeth. Rosie. All those killed by Wraith. All those killed on Madacran._

'_It is my choice,' she said._

'_You get to choose?' His voice had come out bitter, accusing. She didn't deserve that but he carried on all the same. 'I'd like to choose that all those people were still alive. I'd like to choose that they weren't raping you.'_

_There was a long silence._

'_I am in you. You are in me. It is our union,' she said._

_As if that made it all final._

_She began to walk away. _

'_You know that I don't love you!' he shouted at her. If he got angry enough, perhaps she wouldn't try and help him. 'It's Toplon that loves you! Not me!'_

_She disappeared and still the blossom fell. Seldric had gone too. He was alone by the pool. He looked down and his hands were in chains. He could choose nothing. Everything was out of his control._

_-_oAo-

John gradually grew stronger. They gave him three meals a day though he could never finish them. A physician visited him daily in the cell. Selemon's own, they said. Who rubbed some yellow-brown ointment on his bruises and cuts. It worked like iodine, but smelt like... he couldn't place it... some strong herb used in cooking but he was no expert.

By the third day, he was allowed out into a small courtyard. For sun and air they explained. The physician had thought he looked too pale. He couldn't exactly exercise. The physician had also insisted that they remove the manacles at his wrists to allow them to heal but the ankle chains stayed put. So he just ambled about, getting all hot and sweaty in the shadeless space. Lucky, he thought, that they let him shower regularly too.

There was always the question in his head, why was he being treated so well? There had to be a damn reason.

As far as he could make out, no one else was being singled out for the VIP treatment. He was still kept separated and saw nothing of the others. Heard them though...

At first, he'd slept plenty. Solid right through the first day. And then sleep got more disturbed as he became aware of the noises of the garrison. Footsteps of guards as they changed rotas. Cell doors clanging. The shouts and yells of the other prisoners, echoing down corridors. Once, a woman screaming...

He'd so got to get them all out of there.

-oAo-

He had no idea where they were taking him this time. Yet another cell? His usual pair of guards had been replaced by four fresh faces and that made him nervous. Yeah, he could admit to that. He supposed he was going to get answers as to why he'd been looked after so well. Or not. These guards just weren't saying. Not that the other two had been all that talkative. He'd found it impossible to strike up anything resembling a conversation to see if he could get any news of Rodney, however much he turned on the charm. He figured that Kelsoe would have warned them off.

The four escorted him along the side of a courtyard.

Seldric's corpse, some ten days old, still hung by its wrists from a pole and gently swayed in a breeze that wafted over a stench so strong it made John's stomach churn. Blue bugs worked at its blackened mouth, nose and eyes. Left as example to the guards and slave servants not to desert, John guessed. Seldric had shouted obscenities at the guards till his last gurgling breath. John had heard every word through the window of his cell. Heard every thwack of the stick that had smashed every bone in the guy's body.

"You do as you're told and you won't end up like him, understand?" And John nodded. Because he did. And he understood too how much it hurt that Seldric had died trying to help him. And he understood that he was going to make Seldric's death matter somehow... if he ever could.

They took a turn into yet more corridors. And from what John could recall of the map way back in the tavern, they were now entering the principle part of Selemon's villa.

So... this was going to be his big meeting with Selemon. This was going to be his show trial. Give Selemon a chance to gloat before John joined Seldric. Well, mighty nice of them to get him all freshened up and fed and rested first.

The guards were hustling him along. Mustn't keep the main man waiting. But his way forward was restricted to a hobble on account of his short ankle chains that clattered on marble floors, echoing through the vastness of the place. He'd known it was palatial from the time he had seen it last, so it came as no surprise to find it all kitted out in much the same luxury as Recito's. It didn't feel right, somehow, that they were here. Soldiers and... a convict... yeah, he guessed that's what he was... though a cleaner one now...

"Make way! Make way!" and they ploughed a straight line through servants and slaves, sending them to cower by walls, fearful of a beating. John just studied the footfalls of the two guards in front and concentrated on keeping his balance. He couldn't bear to look at the servants because hell, they shouldn't be treated like this. He tried a glance, now and then to reassure them. He'd smile if he could. He'd smile if he could remember how.

He was led into a large hall. A throne room. It had to be a mile long. Guys in togas stood around in two or threes, eyeing them up curiously as the five of them marched by. They'd been chatting but that now stopped.

To the front stood a curtained dais with guards and slaves standing to attention round one ornate gilded chair. Where sat... Selemon, he guessed. It could be no other. Greying. Average build. Nothing remarkable in looks. Purple toga. Yeah. That just yelled head guy. On his left, Kelsoe. To the right of the dias, a door... and Rodney... who'd just walked in...

John figured his expression matched that of his friend. Relief and fear all rolled into one. But John turned away and felt those shields of his go up. He didn't want Rodney to see him. Not like this... And hadn't he failed Rodney? Hadn't he failed to get Kelsoe, Rosie and Rodney, all of them, home in one piece? And hadn't he failed too in the slave uprising? All these people who'd looked to him for hope...

The two guards at the front moved to one side and the two behind dragged him forwards, forcing him down hard onto his knees. They stepped back but a hand pushed at his head. Ok, he got the message. Eyes to the floor then. He wasn't supposed to look at Selemon, ruler of all.

"Well... well..." said the voice from the throne, "we meet at last... You've been quite the nuisance, but, of course, you know that, Joherner." And then with a lot more contempt. "John Sheppard."

John lifted his head. Something along the lines of 'Lt. Col Sheppard to you' on his lips.

Rodney warned out, "no!"

And a hard upwards smack across the side of his jaw stopped that one short. His vision jolted, his skull stunned by the shock. He licked the blood at his lips gingerly keeping his head lowered. He just wasn't used to this. After all, it'd been all of a week since he'd been last beaten up.

A rustle of clothing and Selemon had stepped down from the dais. Sandalled feet and the hem of the toga came into view. The smell of perfume hung round the High Senator as he walked a circle round his captive.

"How the mighty are fallen. Not quite the noble leader now, are you, John Sheppard? Were you ever? Leading men to their premature deaths in such an ignoble cause."

He was so close, John could hear the guy breathing... so close, John could kill him... Lucky for Selemon that John's wrists were chained to the waist band again. But John tensed at the close proximity. Poised. He could do this. He could inflict some damage. Even if it was the last thing he ever did. And somehow, he felt he should, felt he should be so defensive, apart from the fact he was a condemned man anyhow. There was something about the way that Selemon circled him. And he sneaked a glance at Rodney, who was now near the dais... and Rodney was looking horrified... not at John... but above John's head... towards Selemon.

And John flinched as Selemon drew a finger across his shoulders. The touch was nearly as bad as any Wraith Queen's. A line was then stroked down his back and John shivered and managed to pull away from the contact without earning himself another blow from the guards.

Selemon laughed lightly. "I hear that you haven't been looking after yourself lately. It doesn't pay to lead slaves to rebel now, does it? Still, fed enough, you could prove useful. You have the ATA gene, Kelsoe tells me? And I seem to recall that you once worked an Ancient Chair on a Traveller's ship in the battle against Replicators."

"You don't need the gene!" burst out Rodney, stepping far enough forward of the dais so that John could now see his feet. But so far... only so far. Rodney was scared of Selemon. "I told you! Everything you have could be adapted with an interface! You don't need him!"

"Oh, but Docky..." Docky? And like he was personally wounded by the remark. "You are not thinking correctly and how unlike you too! I am simply attempting to find a reason to keep him alive. I thought you would appreciate that. Apparently, the subject of John Sheppard's immediate future is something of an emotive subject for you. And who can say when we might need... a natural... hmmm..." And Selemon ran his fingers through John's hair... jeez... and John jerked his head away sharply and Selemon laughed again, flouncing off, back to his throne.

"Give me your allegiance, John Sheppard. Say that you will serve me at my side, say that you will honour and revere me as any of my men do, and you and the others held in my cells will be spared."

His head up now. Fiercely looking Selemon straight in the eye. "Selemon?" And the man looked at him expectantly, looked at him like he thought he was going to get what he wanted. "You can go to hell."

The impact of the kick to his back sent him careering across the floor. He lay there, dazed, the room swirling and he shook his head, pushing away the pain to his kidney, wondering why the guards weren't coming in for more of the same. With weapons.

He blearily made out Rodney, still looking so goddamned awful. Suddenly feeling a deep-down need to speak to Rodney... to tell him not to worry... the last thing to do before he died... to say goodbye...

But the fateful blow didn't come. The only movement was Selemon beckoning one of the guards over.

"Not quite what I had in mind, John Sheppard," came Selemon's sour voice. "Let this man demonstrate the custom of my soldiers to their supreme leader. An example, a lesson you should do well to follow."

And John watched, appalled from his place on the floor, as the guard standing proud, eyes fixed on Selemon, systematically began to remove every last item of his uniform... passing over his helmet and weapons to a nearby comrade... the studded skirt and the breast plates... boots... taking off his tunic and letting his loin cloth fall to the floor, till, finally naked, he laid himself prostrate before Selemon.

And Selemon had hungrily nodded his approval throughout the whole damned show.

"My lord," said the man, "the one and only true ruler of Madacran. See my humility. I give you my body and soul in love and servitude always until the end of my days."

John swallowed and felt sickened. He was sure this was the moton working. He then glanced at Kelsoe. Had he been brainwashed by the drug too? Is that why there was no getting through to him? And Rodney... But Rodney was looking just as sick... so Selemon hadn't gotten to Rodney... thankful that Selemon hadn't gotten to Rodney...

"See, John. This is how it is done. With feeling. With passion. With sincerity. Think you can do that? We'll help you with the words if you're not sure. The key word is... love. That's all you need remember. Say that you love me."

And hands of the three remaining guards picked John up from the floor.

"No, Selemon! No! No!" protested Rodney, as John fought and kicked against them, scrabbling for some sort of hold against the marble, hindered by his chains that tugged at him.

"No! Please!" begged Rodney standing between Selemon and John, as they ripped off John's tunic... and damn this planet for getting him naked...

"McKay! Don't interfere!" and Kelsoe had come forward, hauling Rodney out of the way.

"That's right, Docky! Do not interfere! This does not concern you."

And they clamped John down hard on the floor... cold, the manacles digging into his skin... fists bruising as they struck him to still him, pulling at his hair, forcing him to face Selemon, who was off the dais once more, deadly serious now.

"Say it, John. Say it. Say you will serve me. Say you will renounce all claims to be the leader of the people of Madacran. Say you value me over all life... say you wish to serve only me... serve and love only me... the one true lord of Madacran."

And somehow, with the guards holding him down, with all his writhing and twisting on the floor, he managed to shake his head.

"He won't! He won't! You're wasting your time! He'll never say those things, Selemon! Leave him alone! Don't touch him! Don't touch him!" screamed Rodney. What the hell, Rodney? And all John saw from the crazy angle down on the floor... Rodney... mad, demented... "Don't you dare touch him!" Still hollering as Kelsoe heaved him over to two guards, who wrapped their arms around him, bodily lifting Rodney, struggling out of the room, his cries receding down the corridor beyond. "You're not taking him there! Kelsoe! Don't take him there!"

Selemon began circling John again.

"Is he right, John? That you won't say these things, though your life and the lives of others depend on it? Has life no value to you unless it is sacrificed?" And the guards put down more pressure, more weight on his body. The chains from his pinned wrists cutting into his groin. He could hardly breathe, let alone say anything. He made some attempt to shake his head again.

"What is that, John? What is your answer?"

"Fuck off!" he croaked out and that felt damned good. He was going to enjoy the pleasure of denying Selemon for as long as he could. No way was he ever going to turn his back on these people. Nothing... whatever Selemon had planned for him... nothing was going to make him turn...

"Oh... oh dear... well... we'll see, shall we? We'll see if we can make you more civilised, shall we? I suppose such obscenity was only to be expected from a slave leader, after all." And Selemon crouched down low in a space between the guards, hissing into John's ear. "Be assured, John, by the time I have finished with you, you'll be begging to offer me the allegiance I demand. And probably, more besides. Kelsoe?" And he stood. "Be so good as to take John and make him... _comfortable_ in new quarters."

-oAo-


	13. Chapter 13

Madacran

Chapter Thirteen

"Kelsoe." But the man wouldn't answer. He hadn't left the room. John was sure of that. John had been blindfolded and had heard Kelsoe's order for the guards to leave.

"Kelsoe, you know this isn't right." Yeah, there was no way out of this for John except by talking his way out. Begging. Apologising. "Kelsoe, I know I was responsible-"

"Rosie's dead, you know."

"Yeah... I know... I said... I'm sorry..." and damn, he remembered all that, and the memory cut as if it were only an hour ago. He remembered too the way he'd been left to die, helpless, like now, watching the secrids that had first fed on her body, knowing they'd soon move over to him, perversely wishing they would sooner rather than later and get the agony over with, rather than watching him, just as Kelsoe must be now.

"I will get to see her in heaven because once I get to kill God, heaven will be open to all."

"Yeah... yeah... sure it will." He knew again there was no appealing to Kelsoe. This was Aiden all over again.

"You'll be ok, you'll be ok, Colonel." Kelsoe was just like Aiden.

"Yeah... sure I will," said John softly, because he wasn't going to escape this, whatever _this_ was...

Strapped, naked, spreadeagled out in some weird circular cage.

He'd fought the guards. Gotten extra bruises for his trouble. A blow with the hilt of a sword had sent him senseless to the floor.

When he'd come to, when his vision had cleared, they'd nearly finished securing him. Soft leather cuffs at his wrists, biceps, ankles, knees and thighs. A strap around his hip and chest. All attached to chains and these in turn linked to a surrounding cobweb of wires, and further chains, and pulleys, and metal rings, all pulling his limbs out tight. He was upright at the moment, with his feet resting on the platform that held the cage, but he didn't think that was always going to be the case. The whole structure seemed to be so mechanical with multiple moving parts. He felt like some stringed puppet, and had a pretty good idea of who the puppeteer was going to be...

And then they'd blindfolded him.

And the blindfold itself was secured to jointed rods that held his head in place with leather pads at his temples. The whole inner ring of the cage had similar rods and pads round its perimeter, putting him in the mind of some fragmented, crazy dentist's chair. All close at hand to be used whenever needed...

But the blindfold was all a part of Selemon's gameplay. He knew that. To let him first see the... yeah, it had to be an instrument of torture... to let him see all the sordid details. To let those knots of fear tighten in his belly... because... yeah, he had those too... He tried pushing them away, but heck, he was only human.

Selemon's game to leave him hanging there in darkness. To deprive him of the sense of sight. To keep him guessing... though there wasn't that much to guess. These were Selemon's private quarters... a purple sofa... a massive bed... This was going to be a private showing... painful... or... and those knots tightened all the way up to his chest with the image in his head... or _both_...

Rodney had screamed, hadn't he? 'Don't take him there!' Rodney had known what they intended doing to him. And from the look on Rodney's face, it was never going to be nice.

Perhaps Rodney could come up with a plan... but hey, get real. Months of no contact from Atlantis should be telling him loud and clear that escape and rescue only ever happened in miracles and tales told to kids.

He could shift slightly. Nothing much, but enough to ease his aching arms and legs, enough to test the bindings and knew there was going to be no such escape.

He wished he could ease his throbbing head, wished he could ease his parched throat, but had a feeling that soon those were going to be the least of his troubles.

He wished he weren't so damned naked. Wished Rodney hadn't seen him naked. But that had been the start... humiliation... And how would this finish? He was guessing here in the dark... just like Selemon had planned.

A different set of footsteps and the swish of a toga, and John could imagine Selemon entering. Other new sounds too. Kelsoe's clipping together his feet in salute. His greeting, "My lord." Wine being poured. John had noticed the tray of drinks on a low table. Some low conversation that he couldn't make out. There were others in the room? Soft padding noises on the marble floor. Whoever it was, were shoeless. Slaves then.

He tensed suddenly.

There was someone else close by. He could hear their breathing as they climbed the platform. Hands were at his head, removing the blindfold. He blinked against the sunlight pouring in through the windows. He'd already guessed it was still daylight outside from the warmth on his skin.

A slave, and there was only the one, naked also, stepped back and made way for the approaching Selemon. A smirk on the High Senator's face, and John sort of wanted the blindfold back again.

He braced himself, though it was stupid. Selemon had no weapons. He held nothing in his hands and neither did the slave. Kelsoe stood yards away, over by the door. And it wasn't as if John had never come up against bad guys before. He guessed every episode in his life was never ever a rehearsal for the next. Always expect the now and the unexpected... and the worst.

"Oh dear, John. My apologies for keeping you waiting. I had hoped to be here earlier, to watch... never mind... affairs of state, you know... troublesome Senators... not your problem however... And what do you think of this?" He waved a hand gesturing over the cage and there was a pride in his voice that John wanted to snuff out but John couldn't think of a retort. So... say nothing. He was going to show nothing... not anger... nor desperation... nor the way the man was already getting to him...

Selemon began a slow thoughtful walk round John, talking as he went. And John picked up the strong perfume that the guy wore. Intense. Heady, like that of the aurora tree. But with Selemon, it felt as sickening as his words.

"A device of the Travellers that I have had modified for... my own use. I sincerely regret that it has come to this." Though he didn't sound like he regretted it that much. "Of course, I would consider releasing you, but..." the man sighed.

Selemon was well out of John's vision, and John hated that, fighting the reflex action to turn his head, to try and see what Selemon was up to.

He'd came to a halt behind John, and John's breathing quickened. He'd got to stop that. Stop letting on what he was feeling.

"But... as I have already said, if you would only see reason and serve at my side, offering me the same devotion that you demonstrated to the traitor Loryeffi, I would be pleased to release you. I am a fair man, John Sheppard. All you ever have to say is that you will honour and love me as your one and only true lord, and I will give you your freedom."

John said nothing. He was never going to say anything. Not the words that Selemon wanted to hear anyhow. He'd determined that ages ago. He owed the people who'd been prepared to die for Loryeffi's cause that much. There was never any going back on that. Ever. It'd never been his fight. But he understood loyalty and integrity and courage. These had always been, _were_ his ideals. He was never ever going to submit to Selemon and effectively be his slave. That was never going to be freedom. He was never going to let Selemon use him as a weapon, to show the people of Madacran that their fight had been futile. If he had to die, then so be it. Rescue for himself and Rodney... Atlantis... had long gone out of the equation anyway.

"No? No, John? Hmmm? No answer? Not even a speech of defiance? Oh, I expected that of you, at least. Perhaps my device here is working already? The great Joherner is showing fear perhaps and he has lost the power of speech? I mean to say... do you not feel... somewhat... _vulnerable_?" And John set his face harder than ever, thankful that Selemon couldn't see the effort that it needed.

"Well... well... You know that Dr Rodney McKay does my bidding as, at the click of a finger, I could have Kelsoe here slaughter a dozen little Madacran brats, though such an act would hardly make me endearing to the people of Madacran. And ultimately, in my service to this world, it is the interests of the tiny dears that I have at heart. But... McKay believes I would do it and so the arrangement works fine. Perhaps he is simply gullible. But what of you?"

Selemon had come round to John's front again, eyes flitting over every inch of John's body. And slowly the High Senator began removing his belt and unwinding his toga. John ground his teeth, every muscle in his face tightening, trying his damn hardest to remain impassive.

"If I were to murder innocents before your very eyes, would you change your mind? Or would their lives be worth the sacrifice for the greater good? Perhaps you would call my bluff?" For a moment, Selemon pondered at this and then, allowed his toga to fall to the ground, revealing a loin cloth that he started untying, making his way round to John's side again, sighing, but still studying him.

"Get to the point, Selemon," John gritted, still attempting to hide how much Selemon was actually freaking him out. Hell, but he shouldn't be surprised by any of this. He'd seen the way that Selemon had looked at him. 'Did they rape you?' Kelsoe had asked. No. Selemon might not want second-hand goods.

"I am, at heart, a peace loving man, and dislike violent coercion. And I believe I am an excellent judge of character. I believe that you would endure all conceivable physical force and pain, rather than go against those strong morals of yours. I imagine you may have already toyed with the idea of giving in at some point only to negate at a later date. I much prefer the element of free will and there is always permanence in a promise freely given." He was at the back of John again now, and had mounted the platform, pushing aside loose chains to reach him. And John, tense and breathing more sharply than ever was sure that he'd heard the loin cloth drop to the floor...

"You have a beautiful body, John..." Selemon purred into his ear, drawing a finger down John's spine.

Hell...

...and John flinched and twisted away, which wasn't that much restricted by the bindings and the way the man now held him, wrapping one arm round his chest, pulling him tight against the High Senator's body while combing his free hand through John's hair.

"Hmmm, so wonderfully thick, John." John tugged his head away. It made Selemon drop the idea of fondling through his hair, but Selemon had found pastures new. John pulled more frantically than ever at his wrist straps, attempting to arc his back out of Selemon's reach but his struggling was getting him no where fast as Selemon now gripped tight at John's groin, fingertips curling through the hair there, lowering his other arm to stroke along the length of John's own arm.

He seemed oblivious to the way John tried fighting him off, sighing out deep appreciative noises in his throat, resting his head against John's shoulder, brushing against John's skin with the rough stubble on his cheek. "You are powerless, John Sheppard," came Selemon's voice, low and oily, hot on John's neck. "All power over you and your body rests with me now, and me alone. When you realise that, when you ultimately come to terms with the fact that I hold all control over you, you will love me, John Sheppard... you will love me... I guarantee it."

Selemon's hand that had been at John's hip slipped further round between John's thighs and clumsily grabbed at everything there. John froze. He'd guessed that the more he squirmed, the more it was turning Selemon on... so he held his breath... held real still and listened to the madness at his back. Tried not to think. Tried not to think that Kelsoe and the slave were watching this. Tried not to think of locker rooms pranks where guys had taken it.

"It is only I who can give you your control and power back to you. You understand about command and power? I know that you do. These things are important to you, more important than you realise perhaps..."

Once John had tossed a coin but he'd still been in control.

And John held his body taunt, blanking out a part of him, but knowing it was true... he had no power and control... and he was... scared... so damn scared... so scared he even felt ready to throw up... Selemon might as well be holding a knife to his throat.

"Still not saying anything, John?" What could he say? He was powerless. And waiting.

Waiting. And loathing the hands stroking his skin, stroking through the hairs on his body. Loathing the trembling and perspiration of his own body that would give away his fear.

"Still won't say it, John? That you would serve and love me? But we would be so good for Madacran together."

And the clutching and caressing was getting real urgent. And John, however much he strained, just couldn't pull away. Waiting. Waiting. Knowing how knotted up he was, this was going to hurt like hell. Selemon's breathing came broken and panting. His sweat and heat reaching through to John. And Selemon began rubbing his body up against John's in a steady rhythm. And inspite of himself, John let out a 'no' but Selemon just got even more agitated with his hands, working at John, clawing at every area on John's front, pulling at his nipples, groping between his thighs or thrusting his own groin at John's backside... And all John could do was wait. Wait for the inevitable. Waiting, with dread writhing in his gut. Waiting, struggling to keep his expression straight, fighting to control his body, fighting the threat of his body wanting to shudder with the revulsion of it all.

And suddenly... "well... oh..." and the man pulled away.

There had been nothing? The guy was impotent?

Selemon laughed. And Selemon might be the perfect tease, and yeah, this had all been part of a sick joke of a sick mind, but John still exhaled long and slow...

Chains rattled behind him, and then around him, as rods and parts of the cage jerked him back to forty five degrees. His weight was now supported by a strip of that padded leather, which pressed close to his spine and the back of his head. And he grunted as his thighs and knees were stretched out wide, as far as they could humanly go. The puppeteer had begun to play for real...

Selemon came round to the front again, nodding his approval at his handiwork, his loin cloth now wrapped round his waist, beckoning over the slave who picked up a small tray from the table.

John had to fight himself not to look... not to look... just to stare at the top of the cage and the high ceiling... not to look down at his own body stretched out at the mercy of Selemon.

"I would have enjoyed what is about to occur even if the object of all this was not to extract your oath to me. This room is where I indulge my little hobby. The art of eroticism, if you like. And you make the most perfect subject... perfect... You have heard of moton, John? You have been on this world long enough now. You must have heard how it arouses a man. A simple harmless recreational drug. But have you heard of cer moton, John? A connoiseur drug. The elixir of its kind, that holds a man forever in... well, well, you are about to discover its... benefits."

And he nodded to the slave who positioned the tray on the base platform.

"Your last chance, John Sheppard. Say that you will honour, serve and love me as your lord. Say it John... say it..." And Selemon had come to his side and reached through the cage, smoothing over John's arm... and John's skin quivered in protest. "I have known men to die held in the ecstasy of cer moton. The perpetual excitement, the frustration of unfulfilment. I am no medical man. I imagine the heart would simply explode. It would be interesting to carry out some form of investigation... yes, it would. But you are strong... though... there have been those who lose their minds. Are you prepared to risk your sanity?"

He'd say nothing... simply lay there... not look... try to curb the disgust at the way Selemon stroked at his arm... try not to wince as the syringe pricked at the inside of his thigh.

"This does not take long," said Selemon, still stroking his arm. Selemon probably thought he was purring, purring assurances, the gameplay, purring false assurances that wasn't purring at all... grating...

John remembered the moton from Recito's and knew what to expect... hating it... hating the familiar warmth seeping up from his thighs... this should be private... personal... and here he was degraded, humiliated, used for the amusement of some sick voyeur...

"You know what this is going to do to you? It is going to consume you. Strip you of all power and control. You will no longer be John Sheppard. Nor Joherner. You will lose all identity. You will become pure passion."

The stroking of his arm drifted over to stroking of his chest... his back arched into the stroking, rather than run from it... it was good... so good... that feel... he needed it... he needed to be free of his bindings... he needed... hell, he_ needed_ Selemon to stroke him...

"There you go... John... there you go..." purred Selemon.

And the slave replaced the blindfold and more chains moved and his legs were bent behind him, a horizontal kneeling and his whole world was darkness and the need between his thighs and the soft stroking of Selemon and the way that Selemon purred to him.

"I'm going to leave you now... Remember this... remember the way that I held you once... remember the way that I touched you... only I have the power to fulfil you, John... you have only to say that you love me, John... just say it..."

"No..." he half-sobbed, his body shaking in the frenzy taking hold of him, his body contorting to... to do something to stop this... the support from his back moved away... he was suspended in mid air... nothing but blackness and writhing need... nothing but the straps that held him... and he bucked and squirmed trying to fight against them... trying to... no... no... _enjoy_ the way they held him... enjoy the way that the soft leather touched him... but it wasn't enough... it wasn't enough... no... no... no... he didn't need Selemon.... he was never going to say that he needed Selemon... never in a million years... he could do this... he could suffer this until death... he hadn't lost control... he just hadn't... he could do this...

-oAo-

_Say it, John... say it, John... say that you will love and serve me... _

No... no... no... short, short breaths... a body that trembled and shook... don't... don't... don't... heat that wouldn't go... his own body fuelling his mind with desire... no no no... he hadn't lost control...

_Say it John... say it... say that you will love me... say that you will devote the rest of your life to me and me only... forget the rebellion... serve only me... say it..._

No... no... no... he needed... he needed... no... no... no...

Turned... turned... turned by the machine...

Darkness but he knew that Selemon watched... Selemon... only Selemon could touch him that way... no... no... no... if he could just get his hands free... he didn't need Selemon... he needed to get his hands free...

And on his back, vertical... horizontal... he didn't know... this was his space... his universe now... in this torment... in this darkness... his torso shoved forward... and he pushed and pushed against emptiness... moaning and grunting into emptiness... someone... someone... Selemon... help... please...

"Which is worse, I wonder? Pain, that has death as its release. Or this, with none? Unless you relinquish control to me, willingly, and that would never do, would it, my highly principled friend? Hmm? When will you see that I already control your body, that it is I that says when you need and when you do not? When you die and when you do not?" And Selemon touched him briefly... and John gasped and felt his eyes go white and wide under his blindfold.

"You have a beautiful body, I could not resist. Poor, poor thing... skewered by your own desire and morality. Forget morality. It belongs with the masses. It belongs to this world. They derive their pleasure from the attainment of morality, debasing, sidestepping this purity. They have not the capacity or the means to enjoy these pleasures... the perfect body... Forget your old self... enjoy this... enjoy that you are part and whole to pure art, heightened by a sense of contradiction, wanting to achieve climax... perfection, but never able... It is eternity... heaven now... Clear your mind as to who has the power to deliver you from heavy worldly ideals, as to who can help you enjoy the completeness of your body. It is me, John Sheppard. It is me, Dochelimar Selemon who has this control... see it... see it... give in... give in... say that you will love me... say that you will serve me... and I will let you have the heaven that you crave... this eternity..."

Turned, turned, turned by the machine... the clanking signalling some chance... some chance he might... he might... hope... but he killed that hope... couldn't let this... couldn't let this happen... he was in control... him... him... wasn't going to give Selemon his show...

And on his front... his arms stretched out behind him... bent over backwards over the leather pad... another pad at his chest... the skin taut at his chest... sensitive to touch... nearly... nearly... could nearly... but the pad only pressed to his sternum... couldn't get the pressure he needed lower down... hot hot sweat making the pads slippery... straining hard and furious... fighting the chains at his legs... so good... so good on his skin... nearly... nearly... and Selemon moved him again, laughing... leaving him suspended in mid air with nothing...

_Say it, John... say it, John..._

"John... John... you should drink... "

Thirst? Yeah... drink...? He'd sweated long and hard. He needed something at his mouth. Longed, yearned for his mouth, his lips to touch something... please...

"No... no... no... don't touch me! Don't touch..." he could hardly breath... short, short breaths... his heart pumping to breaking point, every muscle tight to breaking point... don't touch, he yelled, when every part of him longed for that touch... betrayal... not of the rebellion... betrayal of his mind and body... this wasn't him... this wasn't him... a puppet on strings... no control... no control... guilt... guilt... guilt about his need...

"No one is going to touch you until you say you will honour, serve and love me. Say it, John. Say it, John. Brellica will help you drink. You must drink... open your mouth..." purred Selemon... mouth... purred Selemon... and water poured on his face... soft on his face, down his throat, washing down his chest... stroking, caressing...

"Don't touch me! I said don't touch me!" he screamed.

"No one is touching you, John. No one is going to touch you until you say you will love and obey me."

_Say it, John... say it, John..._

"You have a beautiful body, John. I could enjoy watching your body, forever. The proportions are so perfect... The way that dark hair shadows and shades your skin, colouring, blending, adding depth to the passion and desire... the way that strong muscles strain with effort, with every sinew and vein raised in relief... the perspective that draws the eye to the swollen genitalia... perfect... The best artists of Madacran could not paint such a perfect portrait. The best sculptors could not carve such a perfect god... And still that sense of conflict, wanting and not achieving, bold and stark on black and white. My complements to the creator of such a masterpiece, eh? But all this aside, I must have my reply. You have held out a full day. The human heart is incapable of withstanding such rigours and you must rest. But consider this warning... another day, and I will not permit your rest. Brellica is going to give you something to assist with sleep, and when you wake, we will begin again..."

John was kneeling, upright, his arms stretched out to his sides, shivering as in pain. "Please... please..." he murmured, pleading with the slave who felt so close... so close... and the drug, Brellica injected into his arm took him out of his darkness, and his head slumped forward...

-oAo-

More doses of cer moton. And he loses control again. Hours and hours and hours... His body can't take it... his mind can't take it... surely an end soon... surely soon... Shivering. Trembling. Straining for touch, for friction, for climax.

_Say it, John. Say it._

But the words are meaningless now. Words. That's all they are. Meaningless words that come into his darkness. He doesn't have to fight them. That has always been the easy part. It's his body he has to fight... his own damned body...

The machine has him crouched, knees splayed, with his backside raised, his arms pulled back helpless behind him. His wrists tug at the straps to free his hands... the leather feels good against his skin even if he can't free himself... but he always hates himself... hates himself for needing... and he listens for Selemon... Selemon could touch him, could do whatever he wanted with him... no... no...

A gag is put at his mouth... electric... frenzied... frenzied pressure... snorting, snuffling against the pad, mouthing, licking, panting, biting, anything... heart racing, pounding... he was going to die like this... didn't care... didn't care...

"There you go, John, there you go." Selemon is being nice and affectionate today and treating him like a pet, but the words are meaningless. All he can think about is the heated aching lust in his groin that drives him on... all he can think about is the pleasure of the gag at his mouth... before Selemon takes it away and laughs at him...

But John knows... John knows that Selemon shouts at him now... John knows that Selemon is getting impatient with him... And he sees it now... sees it from his darkness... who has control over who? Selemon perhaps depends on him. Why hadn't he seen it?

"Say it! Say it! Why won't you say it?! Why won't you say that you love me?"

"Selemon?"

"Yes, John? Yes, John?" The guy is expectant, anticipating the answer at last, but it's a hell of a job to talk. He feels like he's drunk and the words come out all slurred.

"I've figured this out... you need me more than I need you." And that was good... feeling the other guy's disappointment.

He must have hit home hard. Because, for spite the blindfold is removed and Rodney's been invited in. To shame him. It works and he turns his head away from the gaze and the pity of his friend, trying vainly to ease off the shuddering of his body.

A sharp movement makes him turn his head again and Rodney has snatched for the knife of Kelsoe.

Selemon simply stands there and smiles, beckoning Kelsoe to stand down and not strike back.

"Oh, very dramatic!" says Selemon. "And how very touching. Going to rescue your friend, are you?"

"Don't... don't get yourself killed!" gasps out John.

"He won't kill me. He needs me too much!"

"And forgotten the little brats have we, Rodney?"

And Rodney hesitates. He doesn't know what to do now he has the knife in his hand. Hurt is written all over his face. He looks at John. He looks at the knife. He looks at John again. And even with John's twitchy movements, even with the pant-sobbing of his breathing, even with the effort to control his body, even through the chains that surround him, John can see his friend's indecision.

Finish me, Rodney... he knew his eyes said that... use the knife and finish me, Rodney... he knew the look on his own face... the look had been on Sumner's face... and Rodney understands... he guesses that's why Rodney has grabbed the knife in the first place.

But Rodney says, "I can't." He drops the knife and walks out.

He hears other voices. The show today isn't for Selemon's eyes only... and John tries to control his trembling... tries to control his breathing... keeps his straining still like he did with Rodney... he's learnt how... a little... but it means he'll pay later... pent up... the longing always comes back stronger than ever... but he's not letting these guys see his shame... He concentrates on the words that he hears, tries to make out their meaning, tries to make sense of the world outside of himself, and that helps him to forget his body... a little...

John can see the room from his fixed position. He is upright and spread-eagled once more.

"See how depraved he is? This Joherner? This would-be leader of our slaves? He would take your daughters and wives and concubines if I did not chain him up."

"Oh, come now, Selemon, you can see he's been given moton!"

"Ah, Agamus! What? Moton is... bad? I can see from your faces that you believe so," says Selemon.

There is silence in the room. These guys aren't here for the peek. Selemon has brought them here to torment them. They're not comfortable with any of this. Loryeffi's friends on the Senate. Loryeffi had sympathisers on the Senate. There is tension here. Danger. John's sixth sense becomes alert. Guards. Twenty. Thirty are filing in round the walls of the room. The guys in togas watch them too. They're scared.

He can see Selemon pacing the room. He can see the guys in togas squirm. "I trust that on the night of Lord Recito's demise, when _all_ the Senate was invited to the occasion, your absence was due to a wish for abstinence and was not a result of some forewarning of the bloodbath that was about to occur. I hope this is not true. Fortunate that I was not there also, hmmm? But perhaps... you all expected me to be?"

A low murmuring of 'no's' and 'indeed, nots' that didn't ring true.

Selemon comes over to the cage, rubbing his chin. "John, you may not know this? These people," and he waves a hand back at the Senators, "worship, among their gods, Heutious, and his bride, mother of all nature, Ephonio. She holds that the human body is pure and sacrosanct, that it is a holy vessel that, with the application of will power and denial, should never be besmirched by evil. 'Evil' simply being another word for bodily pleasures, you understand. Oh, I say that if Mother Nature did not want us to enjoy the pleasure of moton, why provide the means to create it? Is this not so?" His little speech over, he returns to the Senators. "Come now, all my guests, be seated, and, partake. Let us enjoy what is before us."

And John knows Selemon means the spectacle of him in the cage. He shivers, fighting down his urges harder than ever.

"But this is...?" Asks a voice.

"Moton, yes. To enable us to delight further in the... art before us. Perhaps even to participate if you feel so inclined... Oh come now, is it not impolite to refuse a host? Would a host thus refused, not believe himself to be dishonoured? Ah, Agamus, no, this is yours, a mistake on the part of the serving staff."

"What... what is this?"

"Cer moton, the very best, reserved for you especially. I'm afraid I have insufficient for all."

"Cer moton?"

"Yes. Go on... try it. Tell me what you think. Each distillery is different. If you look upon Joherner, however... well, it speaks for itself.... exquisite, is it not? The guards will help you."

Protests from the other senators as guards surround this one senator and remove him from the table struggling.

"No! Remain seated!" says Selemon more sharply than usual, that silences the toga'd guys as guards cordon them off, separating them from Agamus. Selemon remembers himself and softens his voice. "Do not trouble yourselves. The guards will help Agamus... there you go, Agamus, it works quickly... there you go... now, come with me." And two guards haul Agamus over to John. Agamus slumps between them. His hands are between his thighs, twitching and groping at the cloth of his toga. His eyes roll. He's moaning, 'please, please, please.' He wants so much to curl over next to Selemon.

John pities the older man. And he knows this is all going to be a part of his torment too.

"Come, come, Agamus." And Selemon takes Agamus by the arm and leads him over, closer to the cage. "Don't be bashful. What is the human body for, if it is not to be enjoyed? Why keep it imprisoned in chastity? Go on... enjoy... touch him..."

No... no... no... And John tenses. Back again to his twisting and writhing. Don't touch. Please don't touch. He can't move his wrists. He can't move his feet. He can't move anything. He can't run. He's just there for Agamus to touch him at Selemon's order. And yet... damn... he wants it... he wants to be touched... jeez he so wants to be touched.

"Touch him," and Selemon encourages some more.

No... no... no...

"Share the experience with him. He likes you. I know he does. See how he's panting for you to touch him. Take pleasure in the sight of his body. Is it not lean? Are not the muscles to your liking? Perhaps a little pale, but his hair..."

And Selemon reaches over and pulls at a chain and John's hands and feet at pulled backwards and the leather pad at his back pushes John's torso directly in front of Agamus... no... no...

"See the lines of his body hair... perfection... sheer perfection... nearly a god, don't you think? See those thighs. And those hips that you want to touch, don't you? Why don't you stroke his thigh?"

No... no... no...

"He'd love you to. Here let me help. Oh, but you are trembling. No matter as he is trembling too."

No... no... please don't touch me... please. He can hardly breathe. He can hardly breathe with the longing between his thighs.

"He is willing you to do this. Don't be afraid." Selemon takes the hand of Agamus and guides it towards John's hips. Agamus eyes start with the shock. His body fights the convulsions that are mirrored by John's.

"Here, here, Agamus, let me help remove your toga, then you can be more comfortable." And Agamus shakily allows him.

No... Selemon... don't...

And the older man stands before John and can't keep the agony out of his eyes.

"Wrap your arms around him. Go on..."

Shit no, Selemon! And John is wrestling against his straps. His body is telling him to lean to Agamus. His mind telling him, no.

"See John... deep down... all of them beasts... nothing but beasts... for moton only works on what exists deep down anyway. Desire they say is evil. I say it is paradise. Go to paradise." And Agamus convulses again and collapses to the floor... eyes wide open... dead...

"Oh, how stupid of me. I do forget sometimes that when you have spent a lifetime keeping your body free of such contaminations, the heart cannot cope. And then he was old. Oh dear... a silly accident..."

And there is no movement in the room save that of John trembling, rattling at his chains. Everyone is stunned.

Selemon grabs John's chin suddenly.

No! Shit! Because he'd can't bear the touch to his face.

His head is turned sharply and he is forced to gaze to the large couch where the dozen senators sit. He can hardly hear the words of Selemon. The tremors of his body are so intense now with the touch on his face. He can hardly breathe. He can hardly breathe. His heart is pounding loud in his ears. He's going to die like this. He going to die like this, trussed up and exposed and shamed.

"See what cowards they are, that you have fought for. These are the men that wish to reform our society. See the fear in their eyes. See the way they huddle together. They have done nothing for the cause, except allow you to do their dirty work and let others die. I must have allegiance, otherwise what is the point of having a Senate? Do I have your allegiance? No. How can you give it? All honourable men and true?"

Selemon then hisses into John's face. "I must have allegiance, otherwise what is the point in keeping any of you alive?" He drops John's chin. And John is shaking, shaking. He's sure he's going to die here. Selemon screams words that do not register. That are meaningless. He is shaking, shaking. He so wants this to end. He so needs... so needs... someone... to... end this...

The room is empty now. Guards have taken the senators away. There were sounds. Shouts. But they were meaningless. His world is the rattle of his chains. His world is the sordid grunting of his own desire. He guesses they'll be executed.

The body of Agamus is dragged from John's vision.

"The wrong side has won has it not, John? My side. Guile, corruption, bribery, debauchery, murder even... Yes, I confess to all of those. What does that say about that perfect idyllic world that resides in the mind of Joherner, eh? John? You are beaten, John. Why won't you say it? Why won't you say that you will serve me? Say it, John, before I grow bored with asking."

His hands are tied frontwards to the strap at his hips. His ankles are tied together. At long last, he is able to reach the area between his thighs. He bucks and dives. Sending the chains, creaking and clanging. Feeling the pleasure of the strap at his backside... feeling the sensation of his own skin... him... him... his world is only him... glory in his sweat... got to... got to... throbbing, pulsating... he could die like this... he could die like this and not care... but he needs... skin... skin... his own hands scrabbling at his own skin... folds, creases, sweat, hair... crazy with need... the clatter of the chains as he twists, writhes, crazy with need... he won't do this... shame... shame in front of Selemon... has to... has to... but he needs someone to... why won't someone?... he can't do this... he can't do this himself... he can't do this to himself... he needs... Selemon... Selemon to stop... stop... stop this... but he won't give in... he hasn't given in... won't now...

The man is now screaming at him.

"Why won't you say it?! Why won't you say that you love me?! Look at you! Look at the baseness of you! You disgust me! Look at you in your squalid lust! Filth! Filth!"

The man now wants to hurt him. John has seen it coming.

The man is screaming at him. Hatred in his eyes. "I will make you say it! And the whole world will see you for what you are! No one of consequence! Nothing! Nothing! Dust! Dust!"

But the man can't hurt him. Ever. John still keeps a part of him protected inside. The part that counts. John Sheppard of Atlantis.

And John has won... he has finally won...

-oAo-


	14. Chapter 14

Madacran

Chapter Fourteen

Yes. Yes. Take the filth away. Let him die in the desert.

There is a grave in the desert, blown to dust by the hot winds.

See how he stands. Perfection. Pure art. Tanned skin. Toned muscles. Thick black hair. Olive eyes that smile.

Except... except Selemon can never own him. Never. Jocimus denies him.

'Brother, why have we come here?'

Jocimus is bored with him.

There is a place in the desert where Selemon took his lovers. An oasis.

And Jocimus writhes and twists, bound to the bed of the villa. And Jocimus denies him. Curses him. Says he will tell. Mama?

'No. No. That is not the option. The option, Jocimus is to say that you love me. Say that you love me. That is all I desire. Say it. Say it, Jocimus.'

Perfection.

The words that come from the mouth of Jocimus are not perfection.

Let the desert make Joherner perfect.

-oAo-

At first, Rodney thought he wasn't there. Too late? Or wrong cell. The guards must have made some mistake. For heaven's sake, how hard could it possibly be to remember where they'd put their single solitary prisoner? Hmm?

He looked back down the corridor, sure the other cells had been empty. The senators not loyal to Selemon had all been beheaded yesterday in the little courtyard where the stinking body of some hapless slave still swung in the breeze. This was Madacran's equivalent to Death Row, he guessed.

He checked through the bars of the cell again and his eyes found his friend in the shadows. Sheppard was lying so incredibly still in a far corner, it was little wonder that Rodney had missed him. Sleeping or something, and Rodney's head instantly put away, what that 'something' might be.

He felt loathe to disturb Sheppard. It wasn't like Rodney was the bearer of good news or anything. It wasn't as if he was here to free Sheppard. He wished he could, wished he could descend upon the guards, sword drawn, despatching them skilfully into the next dimension like... like Zorro. Well, possibly the wrong movie, but that sort of valour was right. Not that Rodney was lacking in valour. It'd been scary enough actually getting himself here.

Their last good-bye.

And he'd lost count of those times on Madacran when he thought that Sheppard was dead and then found out he wasn't. Actually, now he came to think of it, that had happened a lot on Atlantis too. No. This was really going to be their ultimate final last goodbye. He was convinced of it. The law of averages had just played out. This was it. And life was so unfair.

"Sheppard!" His low call coming out all sibilant through the bars. It was way too loud he was sure. And he gulped so noisily with the tension that he was forced to check the corridor again, making sure he hadn't been heard. Though these prison guards knew he was here. Selemon didn't, and Selemon had spies everywhere.

He whispered Sheppard's name again and still the figure all huddled up in the corner didn't move.

Please don't let him be dead. Though... perhaps it'd be better if he _had _expired. And Rodney wished, oh so wished he'd had the courage to use that knife in Selemon's room... but... nononono... with a knife... with his bare hands... it'd be... it'd be like... _butchering_... he couldn't have done it... Sheppard... or even Selemon... it just wasn't in him to do it...

Rodney pressed his face hard up close to the bars. Frantically, shifting from one gap to another, trying to gauge whether there was breathing there, down on the floor, knocking his nose on the metal, letting out an ow! Rubbing the skin and his eyes that watered.

Sheppard stirred with the sound. And Rodney's heart sunk. His eyes could water for a different reason. They'd chained his friend again. He heard the metallic clinking as Sheppard twisted to sit up, to lean his back to the wall. And there was something like half a sigh, half a hiss, like he was in pain. Sheppard was out of the darkness of the floor now and the poor light from the corridor revealed too much skin. He was still naked. And Rodney felt himself redden. Which was stupid. He'd seen Sheppard in his buckskin in the decontamination showers on Atlantis, hadn't he? Seen him on the floor of Selemon's throne room? And in... the gyroscope? Yes, and all those times he'd done the decent thing and had averted his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." As if... as if at a time like this, Rodney was concerned whether Sheppard got his beauty sleep or not.

"I was awake already," said Sheppard, low and hoarse from his corner.

And now Rodney's heart not only sunk, but was splitting in two. Sheppard had curved himself to the wall, pressing his forehead hard to the surface. If the tight grimace was anything to go by, attempting to ease the hurt he was feeling. Rodney caught a glimpse of the grazes and cuts that criss-crossed his chest and face and swallowed hard. Selemon had taken great delight in informing Rodney, amongst all those other things, that he'd turned Sheppard over to the guards... with residual cer moton still in his blood...

"You were?"

"Yeah."

"I honestly thought you weren't." And he was here to argue that moot point?

"Well... I was."

"I guess you would know, huh?"

"Yeah, Rodney," and Sheppard shifted, grunting with the effort.

"You ok? Oh sorry, stupid question!" and Rodney slapped his forehead and walked off a pace or two. "Sorry! You're not ok! I can see that you're not ok."

Sheppard coughed into the wall. The chains and his whole body shook with the effort. And that answered Rodney's question too. It reduced Sheppard to a sort of panting for breath. How was he ever going to cope with... tomorrow? And Rodney found himself wishing once more that Sheppard was dead already and could be spared the ordeal. And how many times had that happened on Madacran too?

"Why- " and Sheppard broke off, coughing again. It had to be broken ribs. Or the after effects of the drug. Like cold turkey? Or simply the cold of the cell. Perhaps Sheppard could die of a chill before the morning. Rodney was sure that if this was him, he'd soon die of a chill. And he shivered. Perhaps though Sheppard coughed for all three reasons.

"Why did you come, Rodney?" The tone blank and flat. And Rodney's heart now shattered into quarters. Because Sheppard was doing his usual Sheppard thing. Hiding. No, not actually _hiding_... concealing-his-feelings-type-hiding... and... and... not even wanting Rodney to be there.

'Cats go off to hide when they're ready to die,' his father had told him once, when Muffy, their ginger tom was ailing and had gone missing. 'They like to be alone.'

Well, tomorrow... tomorrow Sheppard was going to get none of that seclusion. Why was Rodney here? He was here to will Sheppard to die? Perhaps when he told Sheppard, explained about tomorrow, Sheppard would die of a heart attack. Because even that would be an improvement on tomorrow.

"I should have brought you something to eat." A quick change of subject. Because, actually, the last thing that Rodney wanted to tell Sheppard was about tomorrow. He again paced the corridor a little. Shook his head a little. Shaking out all thoughts of tomorrow.

"I... I couldn't eat."

"No?" Rodney stopped pacing and eyed up the dark corner that held his friend. "So, they haven't fed you?" he guessed. Not even a last meal. And he suspected they'd not even given Sheppard water. Sheppard's voice had a scratchy quality.

"Not... no... Not much..."

"I should have brought you water." And he looked down the corridor yet again, wondering whether he could go and find some.

"You know, Rodney... it'd be better if you got me out of here..." And he supposed that was as near as Sheppard was going to get to asking for help.

"I... can't," and Rodney's voice choked on the whisper.

"I know. I know you can't."

"Don't... don't think I haven't tried! Please... don't think that."

"I didn't... I didn't... Not for a minute."

"They watch me all of the time! There are hundreds of guards round the place. Seems Selemon is paranoiac of an assassination attempt. My face is too well known. As soon as I go somewhere where I shouldn't, I'm stopped! And I haven't any weapons!" His voice had raised a whole octave, he was feeling that desperate. He doubted Sheppard could ever come close to this level of desperation, however bad he was feeling.

"What do I do? What do I do? Tell what to do, and I'll do it!" And he was appealing to Sheppard through the bars, eyes flitting for his friend's expression in the obscurity of the cell. "If I thought it'd do any good, you know... you know I'd... I'd... lay down... "And this was difficult to say but he knew that it was true. "You know, I'd give up my life for you. I would do that. I could do that. Honest I could. I could get a weapon. But a one-man attack? A one-man Rodney McKay attack? How far would I get? But I'd do it-"

"No!" And Sheppard had pushed himself upright, sending his manacles clanking. He staggered over to the bars where he slumped a shoulder heavily against the wall, heaving in deep breaths. And Rodney knew that this was all painful for him. Both literally and metaphorically. In the dim light of the corridor oil lamps, Rodney saw the defeat, the sorrow in his eyes.

"No," he continued, his voice as rough as he looked. "You don't try anything that might get you killed. The only way we're..." and he broke off, "_you're_ ever going to escape is by staying alive and that means you do nothing, you hear! You do nothing to jeopardize that."

Rodney didn't know where to look. Didn't know what to do with his hands. He felt so useless. He touched one of the bars, absently playing with the cold metal, watching his own fingers. He didn't know what to say next, but the words seem to babble out of his mouth despite himself.

"I managed to slip out once, you know. I went and looked at the jumper again. And that was only after storing up water over several days so that no one would know what I was planning. I even had to bribe Meria with... never mind... so she'd cover for me. You can only spend so long out there. It wasn't enough. I needed another hour. I needed to get out there again. And now I... you... we don't have the time... I'm sorry... oh God, I'm so sorry that I couldn't see this sooner. I should have seen this sooner. I couldn't see the wood for the trees. I saw you there in the desert, and thought... thought it was all over. And now it is, because of my... stupidity. I went blind to the fact that the jumper could be fixed. You weren't around. Usually you do a fine job of putting me right. You weren't around and half the time, I've been in Madacran, I thought you were dead. I'm sorry... I'm sorry. And... And..." he blurted it out finally, "they're coming for you at dawn."

There. He'd said it. And his eyes still wouldn't look at Sheppard... the hard earth floor, the bars to the cell, the gloom of the ceiling above them, the way the oil lamps on the wall hissed and flickered in some draught... anything but at Sheppard.

"I know. That's why you're here." And Sheppard turned his back to the wall, sort of sunk in on himself and closed his eyes.

"How could you...?" Of course, Sheppard always read him like a book.

His eyes had re-opened. "You gonna tell me... how... they're going to..." And his mouth set hard. "Finish this." And Sheppard would be expecting Rodney to say like the senators, beheaded, or like the guy hanging in the courtyard. But this was wrong. This was wrong. Rodney shouldn't be here. How did it help to know all this stuff? Rodney had just gone and made all the agony worse.

"I shouldn't be here. Why would you ever want spend your last few hours thinking about this? Some friend, I am." And he slouched off to leave.

"Rodney!" And the call of his name made him stop and reminded him of why he _had_ come. Though he didn't think he could do that either. Good-bye. He didn't turn, however.

"I just... I just wanted to say... _goodbye_, that's all... I didn't..."

"It's ok. Tell me." The voice husky and so wonderfully reassuring. Like none of this was happening. Like they were back in Atlantis. Like Rodney was simply struggling with some math problem and wanted to throw the towel in. And Sheppard was there with words of encouragement. Strength. Sheppard's strength that Rodney had missed so much. Sheppard didn't deserve this. And he hadn't deserved what had happened to him in Selemon's room either.

"Romans... um... how well do you know your history?" He was still reluctant to explain. He was still going to beat around the bush. He just knew he would. Because... how _do_ you explain this? And neither would he return to Sheppard's side, sensing more than seeing that Sheppard shook his head at the question.

"The Romans. The Romans. Madacran is the closest we've seen to the Romans. So it isn't surprising that they have the same way... of... of..." No. He couldn't tell him.

"Rodney, I'd like to_ know_."

"Of course, there's a pre-execution scourging... just to whet the appetite. And they weren't the only ones for a predilection towards... um..." He feebly came to a halt again, and then took a deep breath, turning round to Sheppard now and let the words come in one great big torrent.

"The Japanese found it quite serviceable to rid themselves of the odd foreigner and Christian. It's believed the Romans copied the idea from the Carthaginians. Spartacus. You must have seen the film Spartacus? I've always said you were like Kirk, but I didn't mean that _Kirk_. Well, actually that only happened in the film. Spartacus died in battle, they thought. Body disappeared you know. With the Romans, it was always slaves and robbers. Nobles were always beheaded. Like the Senators yesterday. It wasn't always a Christ thing. You know, _nails_. Ropes. They usually used ropes you know. Nails were too precious. The... the... well, it lasted longer that way. Out in the sun. A place the other side of Madacran." He'd been rattling off facts ten to the dozen. Like he did when he was panicking. Truly panicking. Wringing his hands even.

"Rodney. The point..."

"Damn, Sheppard, are you completely brainless? I know they've knocked you about. It's crucifixion! Sheppard! They're going to... _crucify_ you!" And no, he shouldn't have been that sharp with a condemned man... but... but... there were actual tears in Rodney's eyes now... surely he could be forgiven... huh?... huh?

"Crap, Rodney."

And Sheppard slipped down the wall till he was sitting again, drawing up his knees, resting his manacled hands across his middle.

Rodney sniffed and rubbed at his nose and eyes. "Yeah, crap." And now what could he say? What would be going through Sheppard's mind now? Crucifixion...

"I... I didn't think... I thought Selemon wanted me alive... I thought he was just going to let me rot here."

"I believe the plan is still to persuade you to swear that... um... oathy thing to him." And Rodney got himself down to the ground too and leaned on the bars. Back to John. Talking to him over his shoulder, knowing that Sheppard would prefer it that way. Not too close but close enough for some human comfort.

But the whole situation was so depressing, with no way out. What room was there ever going to be for comfort? They were both sitting there on some filthy floor... when did they ever clean this place?... resigned to the short future that lay before them.

"Selemon wants that oath now. He really didn't need your little slave rebellion. Sort of interfered with the universe domination thing he's got planned, you know? And... And... the way of all megalomaniacs, he's jealous of rivals. You know that it's rumoured that he killed his own brother and most of his peers?"

"Yeah. Heard that one."

"You could always give him what he wants-"

"No!" And Rodney jumped slightly.

"Sheppard-"

"I said no!"

"You don't have to mean it. It just buys time-" He twisted round to look at Sheppard.

"I said no! There's too many..." and Sheppard shook his head. "I can't believe you're suggesting this. There's too many other lives at stake here. Those that have been lost already... too many of them... If I give in, what would they have all died for? I'm not about to give that man his glory. It'd be like handing over the surrender of all those still left to fight."

"And you think there _is_ anyone left?!" shrieked Rodney. Sheppard looked up surprised. Rodney bleakly returned to looking at his feet.

"I'm sorry. I just don't want to... lose a friend. It seems like it's for nothing. Everything to others. Nothing to me. Does that sound selfish?" And he cast a fleeting look back at Sheppard. "They're going to crucify the other forty nine too, your fellow rebels, well, they were going to anyway. You just make up the numbers to a round fifty, I guess. But can you ever get a carpenter here if you wanted a door fixed? Sorry... bad joke... sorry..."

A silence followed that Rodney tried to break.

"I hate Madacran," he said.

Sheppard made no reply. Rodney supposed he must hate Madacran too but he was still going to die for its people, for a cause that wasn't his own.

It was time to leave and Rodney stood without the will to do so. This was it then. The final good-bye...

"I have to go. I bribed the guards with ivis but they still weren't prepared to let me stay long. Pity it's wasn't enough to get them drunk." It showed that Rodney had been thinking along those lines.

"Yeah..."

"Tomorrow... tomorrow... I have to be there... Selemon... he... um... wants me at his side... he... he expects me to watch..." Though he couldn't... he wouldn't...

Rodney drew nearer the bars. "I could get a knife. From the kitchen. I could. I'll be right next-"

"No, Rodney. We've been through this. Promise me you'll do no such thing. Promise me you won't endanger your own life." Sheppard struggled upright again, desperate to drive his point home, and Rodney turned away, not embarrassed as such. He simply hated seeing his friend this way.

"And... and... that's an order." Tall and proud and straight as he could ever be.

"It might work! The whole thing would fall apart if he were dead! It's not as if anyone actually _likes_ the man!"

"And it might not. Promise me you won't try! Promise me, Rodney!" And Sheppard reached through the bars, his chains rattling and stopping him just within reach, grabbing at Rodney's arm. "Promise me!"

"What do I do then?" Rodney asked miserably, seeing but not taking in, the filthy, bruised and cut hand.

"You just have to wait some more... a while longer... rescue." But it'd been too long...

"Rescue? It isn't going to come now, is it?" Not for Sheppard for sure. "I have to go," repeated Rodney, looking down the corridor, his vision sparkling as the lamp-light caught at the moisture in his eyes. He wiped them again.

"I know, you said." And John let go, swallowing hard on his own... grief? Grief for himself that the John Sheppard luck was finally going to run out.

"I... I don't want to... say... goodbye..." said Rodney, gazing down to the floor. "Certainly not like this... no... not ever... we always struggle with this part, huh?" And he glanced up then, knowing there were memories there for the two of them of past goodbyes... of one out on a certain Atlantis pier... sharing beers...

"Rodney. It's ok. Something will turn up. It always does." Sheppard's voice scarcely a whisper.

"Sure. Always does. Gotten this far, huh? Luck's always good." And it was the hardest thing yet to sound sincere.

"Yeah. Gotten this far. So don't..." but he didn't finish. "Something will turn up. I told you. I'm not ready to say goodbye. You've not heard the last from me yet."

Rodney shook his head. "You're asking for a miracle."

"Yeah. A miracle. Here's to miracles, huh?" Sheppard reached out between the bars again and... Rodney paused, understood and took the offered hand. He saw the tears in his friend's eyes but he also saw the crooked smile too. Those assurances again. For Rodney's benefit alone. There was no hope for Sheppard. He could try and escape. Get himself killed that way. Win his mercy killing at the hands of the guards. But that would be all. Not much of an outlook, was it?

"Long may they happen, Sheppard." Rodney nodded, a brave attempt at his own smile in his eyes, on his lips. Playing along with the false optimism that neither man felt or believed in. But hoping it could be true. Hoping that luck could hang in there by the slightest thread.

Sheppard nodded back slowly, releasing his hand, allowing Rodney to leave.

"Rodney... if... you... Atlantis..." and Sheppard couldn't finish.

"I will. You know I will." Because some things just didn't need saying.

But Rodney hesitated before going, his back to Sheppard, looking down at his feet...

His thoughts were of the weapon. And he knew that if Selemon were ever to find a ZPM, if Rodney couldn't ever get the jumper to go, if rescue never ever came, then, it was going to be down to Rodney to stop Selemon somehow. _Alone._ Even if it meant... Well, he'd never _actually_ promised Sheppard anything, had he? But he wouldn't tell Sheppard all this. He wouldn't put Sheppard under that sort of pressure to cave in.

"I guess... I guess, I'll see you in heaven then," murmured Rodney, walking off finally into the darkness.

-oAo-

_Jaleen by the pool. 'I can help you.'_

'_How can you help me? No one can help me.'_

He woke in the semi-light and panicked. Stiff limbs painful with the sudden movement. No. No. There were probably hours left yet.

He'd had nightmares again... of Rosie, the desert and secrids... of Jaleen... of struggling in the cage and Selemon laughing at him... of Seldric swinging in the wind... except... it was probably him swinging in the wind and there'd been nothing he could do about it.

Reality wasn't so much better.

Easing himself up to a sitting position, wincing with the pain that he felt inside, Sheppard wrapped his cold arms around him as much as the chains would allow, giving himself a hug of sorts... and remembered the way he'd pity-cried himself to sleep. Ashamed nearly. Not as much as the shame of the last couple of days... couldn't come close. Only death might ever wash that away, he felt dirtied, sullied enough.

Something would work out. Yeah. And he slid over to his side again and curled up fetal-fashion trying to instil some warmth, some... comfort from somewhere.

At least, they'd come and fed him properly. Though half the meal still lay uneaten. He guessed that was down to Rodney. He owed him one. Sometime...

Something would work out.

Perhaps he should give Selemon what he wanted? That would give Rodney time to work on the jumper. No. Sheppard was convinced Selemon would still kill him. It'd make little difference.

Anger flared up. And he twisted over restlessly. Lifted a fist to strike the wall. The hand tugged back, restricted by its chain. This wasn't fair. He'd only ever wanted to get back home... no... Atlantis... home... yeah, and funny how his mind confused the two.

He looked at the cell from this low sideways angle. The way the fading light of the oil-lamp flickered across the ceiling.

'My days are past, my purposes are broken off; even the thoughts of my heart.' And he remembered his mother's funeral. Those words. Read from the Bible. Job. Like only yesterday. And memorial services since.

So now what? Was he supposed to put things right between himself and God? Was he ever that religious? He'd been hauled to church every Sunday as a boy. Had fidgeted in his seat. Knew about reverence and proper decorum but guessed that was as far as it went.

He'd faced death before. Heck, he'd faced a _slow _death before, at the hands of Todd and Kolya. Mostly, events moved so fast, like attacking a hive ship, he'd just jumped headlong in and had never really had the chance to think about it, his mind always looking for ways to escape. He guessed, he was naturally a survivor. And a guy could get so used to that. But he was just in the wrong line of work. Death, cut off in his prime was probably always going to be inevitable and he'd just accepted it.

He hoped, had faith they'd be something beyond death. 'See you in heaven,' Rodney had said. If not, well, he wouldn't know anyway. He supposed that's how things stood with him. But his conscience was clear and he guessed that was the most important thing of all.

The one regret was Rosie.

If he had his life over, he'd do a lot of things differently. But he'd definitely not do that again. Damn, he wouldn't even have allowed Kelsoe to leave Atlantis. He should have stopped him. He shouldn't have been so soft on the man. And his memories went back to those days in the jumper. Perhaps he'd been condemned to hell already over Rosie... perhaps he was being punished now and what he'd experienced at the hands of Selemon was some sort of divine retribution. It felt like it.

Death by crucifixion.

And his stomach clenched so hard at the thought that he felt he could throw up. He jerked up his knees tighter, willing the nausea and warm clamminess at his face to pass.

Hell, he so wanted this to be over...

He remembered the crucifixes he'd seen in churches and chapels the world over. Tomorrow... _today_, he was expected to die like... that.

And the tears welled again. God, but he was so low. And he fought them back. He'd got to do better than this. The lack of sleep, food. The abuse and the drugs. All wearing him down. Yeah, he could excuse it.

He rolled over onto his back, wincing at the way the floor scraped the skin there. Buck up, John, it was going to hurt a lot more soon.

He watched the light throw its shadows across the ceiling once more. Like the endless movement of waves across the sea. Or the dappled shade of trees. Imagine the trees rustling in the wind... And he cried silently again. Because of all that was now denied him. Friends he would never see again. And he dragged a hand across his face. Strength. He needed strength to face the morning. He allowed himself to be soothed by images on the ceiling. Listening to the trees rustling in the wind... sleeping... listening to the waves washing around Atlantis...

_The aurora trees whispered overhead. Jaleen by the pool. 'I can help you.'_

'_How can you help me? No one can help me.'_

'_You are seeking something. I can help you.'_

'_How can you help me? No one can help me.' He didn't even know he was hunting around for anything. He guessed he might have been, glancing down at the grass at his feet._

'_Your friends search for you still.'_

_Atlantis. And the waves crashed around the piers. Atlantis. And the city sunk beneath the sea, until every last tower disappeared from view. It was lost to him. He was never going back. _

'_How do I know you're not just kidding me?'_

'_I am in you. It is our union. As long as I am able, I cannot allow you to come to harm.'_

_He could stop looking now. He knew again what it felt like to have hope. Knew again what it felt like to have the strength to carry on._

'_I don't deserve it,' he said. Rosie..._

_And saw a crucifix in his hand and knew what he had to do..._

-oAo-


	15. Chapter 15

Madacran

Chapter Fifteen

The white walls of the garrison glowed pink and orange in the pale dawn, but he'd been held in the dark too long. The weak sunlight felt as intense as any noonday sun, hitting hard, forcing him to shut his eyes, to instinctively raise his manacled hands, that jerked to chest height only, restricted by the short chain linked to his waist. He lowered his head, dazed, blind to the direction the guards pushed him.

"Move!" He had to open those eyes to stop himself stumbling, his legs clumsy, still secured by shackles and weakened by lack of food.

He shivered against the cool air though he was no longer naked. They'd found some dirty grey cloth and had tied it round his midriff. He thought he might have even mumbled some thanks for that. It was in his head, if not actually not his lips.

And as Sheppard's eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw that there were six wagons standing at rest in the courtyard, each to be drawn by two trowsies, each holding a dozen or so of the other captured rebels. All bound by ropes at the wrists.

Cognum. Unum. Tevon... Jaleen. As bruised and battered as the last time he had seen her.

A part of him, the strength of the night before, seemed to fracture as their eyes met.

They crucified women too? There were three or four other females with her. He turned away. 'You should let your anger fight for you,' Ronon would say. He let it go. He'd dreamt of Jaleen again last night and she'd said again she could help him. Jaleen of his dreams had seen that he couldn't even help himself, let alone these guys. He supposed he could make some futile last stand, get himself knocked senseless and wake up on the cross anyhow. He knew when he was beaten. It was going to take every last ounce of what he'd got left to offer to just get through the next few hours.

Guards shouted out 'quiet!' at the rising murmur of voices as he made his appearance. He flinched as a whip cracked at one of the wagons and yeah, the prisoners did fall silent at that.

"Stop there!" This was for him and he held still. He figured they were about to let down the tailgate to haul him up into the front wagon. Pride of place.

The whip snapped again.

Behind him.

He saw the look of warning on Jaleen's face seconds before he felt anything.

Shit!

A swirl of courtyard stones and he took an instinctive step forward to stop himself falling from the strike of the whip, all breath hissing out at the cutting pain lancing his shoulders. A rush of air... and no chance to brace himself against the second lash. He yelled out as the third stroke knocked him to his knees and onto his hands. The shock of hitting the ground as killing as the stabs at his back and sides. He held that position, gasping down to the ground. Spittle and blood dripping dark to the floor. They hadn't tied him to anything. They knew he couldn't possibly make a run for it.

The fourth lash didn't come. Dazed, his vision blurred, he tried to strain round. They were waiting to see if he would stand again?

A steady chant from the wagons had started up. 'Joherner! Joherner!'

He heard the whip again and winced but it didn't come his way, aiming instead at one of the wagons, cutting the cheering dead.

He took more lashes then, his spine arcing with the stripes laid into him, holding in grunts with clenched teeth, violently shaking with the wet heat and the agony spreading across his back, vainly attempting to crawl forward, inches only, to escape. But the guy with the whip followed him, relentless. Good if they killed him now... he could take no more... stop... shit... stop... please...

And he surrendered, face down on the stones. A strange quietness of his own rasping half-breaths... the dizziness in his ears... Took it all in silence. Scarcely aware of his own movement, now little more than a slight flinch at each successive tearing down-stroke. Defeated.

It all stopped. He hadn't died. And he lay with a cheek gratefully pressed to the cold, oh so cold ground, knowing though, this was just the start.

Noises that buzzed and nudged against his semi-consciousness. A kick in the side. Shit! The shock of water thrown over him, and he spluttered out a cry, as breath snatched out of him. A fit of violent coughing sent fire to his back. And he just couldn't stop the trembling running down the length of his body. He shook his head trying to clear his sight. His hair clung stubbornly to his face. Confused, he tried to haul himself up, thinking it was expected of him. But no one had given the order. He coughed again, arms and legs giving way and collapsed to the stones once more.

Hands worked close by. Pushing him over to his side, removing the chains and manacles. And he was sure glad to see the end of those, but _now_ they were going to kill him? Rodney had gotten it wrong? It felt like they were going to kill him now. Why not just carry on with the whipping then? He'd been as good as there. He concentrated and blinked his eyes clear. He could see it in their faces. They meant to kill him and there was nothing he could do.

He was manhandled over to his front. Shit! That hurt! Shit! His arms were grabbed and pulled out straight from his sides. A heavy weight forced down across his shoulders and he gritted his teeth against the way it, whatever it was, wood?... a plank?... he could smell the cut timber... chafed and grazed the gashes there. He couldn't get his head round this... what was it?... He squinted, watching as hands knotted ropes round his left wrist and the plank end. Feeling the same tightness at his right wrist too.

The crucifix.

The horizontal bar. They were fixing him to the horizontal already. His whole body went hot with the dread. And he held his breath with horror. He struggled. The reflexes of the captive animal. No. No. No. And it wasn't much. He was too weak. The guards hardly noticed it. And he was lifted up... shit!... screwing up his face as the sudden movement sent more punishment across his back. And even with the guards half-supporting him and the timber, he swayed under his load. More rope was tied around his shoulders, securing the plank even tighter, leaving him gasping, unable to hunch over, taking the full brunt of the pain.

They forced him to walk forward to the front of the first wagon. Patient at first, guiding him, holding the plank ends, letting him set his own slow unsteady pace. Gradually, they left him to carry his burden alone.

With guards at his side, he led the procession of wagons out of the courtyard. The trowsies snuffling and grunting as they took on their own load. New chanting began again that the guards couldn't stop this time round. That grew louder as they made their way through the arch, out into the street.

"Joherner! Joherner! Joherner! All hail Joherner!"

And he tried it. He tried to look defiant, because that's what the people wanted and he was doing this for them. He mustn't let them see that he was beaten, though he couldn't believe he could possibly look like... their hero... dirtied, bearded, unkempt, bloodied, starved... but he tried and it was the best he could do.

Bent over with his load. Growling into the pain that each shaky step set up. Over and over his strength failed him and he was forced to stop and fight for breath. The trowsy behind, clawed impatiently at the ground. And if he stumbled, if he fell, which was often, the guards simply picked him up out of the dust and pushed him on his way again.

And not just the guards. Onlookers too, rushed forward to help. The air noisy with words of encouragement. The guards had to fight them off. Swords. Batons. Some even tried untying him and were brutally beaten off. Men. Women. Kids. Jostled. Kicked. Trampled. It was all dizzying. Faces that shouted. Faces that fell bloodied. Too many faces. Too many faces that crowded in.

His own voice. There. Somewhere. _'Go home... go home'._

He was prodded by swords to keep moving.

He fell down so hard on his knees once, that the jolt seemed to crack into his skull.

"Move! Move"

I can't.

He pressed on. Not really understanding why. To escape the clamour of the crazy mixed up world in his head?

"Leave him alone!"

The ground that seemed to rush at him.

"Joherner!"

Head hung low. The pain from his back unbearable.

"Let him go! Bastards!"

"Move back! Move back! You'll be arrested unless you move back!"

Staggering.

"Let him be!"

The pounding of his heart loud in his head.

"Let him go!"

The flaring of the skin and bloodied mess on his back.

"Joherner! Joherner! We're with you, Joherner!"

He strained hard on his legs to keep upright, keeping them wide apart. Sweating from the exertion of so long in the sun. Breath hot and snorting. _'Go home...'_

He hated falling and the ground rising up suddenly, smashing into his chest and face, and the weight of the wood crushing down on him, aggravating the cuts on his back, pinning him to the desert floor. With his hands held away from him, his arms rigid on the board, he couldn't avoid the full impact. And with so many falls, his front, arms, and knees were getting slaughtered as much as his back. Though if he fell, respite from carrying the beam. Though if he fell, a face full of dust that added to the confusion of his brain. Though if he fell, he could delay what lay ahead. Though if he fell enough times, he could perhaps delay the inevitable forever...

He lay on the ground, panting, his whole body hurting, seeing nothing but dirt and feet and sandals. And he closed his eyes.

"Joherner! Joherner! Free Joherner! Joherner for High Senate!" Yeah... yeah... that would be good... but he needed rescuing first...

The guards were having a hard time holding back the crowd. Pushing, shoving. Well... tough. And when... when were they going to get the idea that he just couldn't do this?

A rumble of wagon wheels passed close by and he was heaved up and loaded onto the back and held there kneeling by two guards. And this was agony too, as the moving wagon bumped over ruts in the road, jerking at every nerve and aching muscle and open cut on his back. And the noise of the crowd just got more frenzied. And warning shots were fired over their heads... and the cheering seemed to dim... left behind as the wagon rattled onwards.

Out into the Madacran desert.

Scrub and cacti, and dust kicked up by wheels and trowsy hooves. And then... past... past... and he couldn't bear to look and blinked away the sweat and tears. On the left... crucifix after crucifix, waiting for their victims...

And ahead... the last... a solitary pole... And he still tried to do defiant, but he knew he shook, and it was nothing to do with the rolling of the wagon...

He looked to the right. A hill, thick with spectators in a cordoned off area, filling in fast with those rushing from the roadside.

"Joherner! Joherner!" they cried. "All hail, Joherner!"

He wished they wouldn't watch. He really wished they'd all go home. Even though, he knew this was all for them, he wished they'd all go home...

The wagon came to a halt, between the pole and some sort of large canvas tent, so white in the sun that it blinded. One side open and facing the pole. A dais for the nobles, surrounded by scores of guards. Selemon wasn't taking any chances. Then why come? In spite of everything, Sheppard could be smug for a second. He'd riled Selemon enough to come. That had gotta be worth something.

Slaves served food and drink or wafted cooling fans for those on the dais. Selemon, seated at the centre, raised his head from some conversation with Kelsoe, who had stooped down to ear level at his side. And Rodney... Rodney turned away and hid himself somewhere in the back... he wasn't going to watch... and Sheppard hated Selemon even more that he'd made Rodney come.

But Sheppard, so wanted to catch Rodney's eye and tell him it was ok. This was no different to attacking a Wraith ship. Sheppard knew what he was doing. He knew the purpose. He knew the outcome.

"Joherner! Joherner! Long live Joherner!"

Selemon stood furious, looking to the direction of crowd. Sheppard and his followers had well and truly pissed him off. And Sheppard caught a glimpse, as he was pulled from the wagon, of guards being despatched to deal with the situation. And then, briefly, further away... as he was dragged to the front of the dais, other wagons being unloaded and prisoners pushed and hustled to the crosses... Jaleen...

He tried not to show the pain.

He was shoved down to his knees and yeah, he could definitely do defiance now, glaring upwards at Selemon, finding strength in his hatred. Ronon would be proud of him.

Someone in a robe stood, pulled out a scroll and started reading.

"Joherner John Sheppard, you have been found guilty of the charge of high treason against the state of Madacran, in that you have joined with one Furnus Loryeffi and led slaves to take the lives of Madacran soldiers in the execution of their duties, in that you have indirectly been implicit in the assassination of Lord Recito and other members of the High Senate, in that you have sought to usurp the power of the High Senate, in that you have exhibited murderous intent towards the personage of Dochelimar Selemon VI. You have consequently been condemned to suffer death on the cross as befits those of low standing. His most noble High Senator, with the rights that his office affords, would graciously offer you and your fellow conspirators leniency and absolute pardon provided that you here now pledge your allegiance to said state of Madacran and its Government. How say you?"

He set his face hard and said nothing. Selemon did likewise, staring over at the preparations at the crosses.

"Joherner John Sheppard, please acknowledge the charges made against you."

Again he said nothing. His breathing deep and fast. And it wasn't all due to the weight on his back or the pain. Wanting his hands and arms free. Shaking with the fury directed at Selemon. Selemon dared a look down at him. The same fury.

"Joherner John Sheppard. Your silence will be read as unwillingness to serve the state of Madacran and your life will be forfeit-"

"Bring him closer!" snapped Selemon, stepping forward and down from the dais, pausing a moment, realizing he was open to attack, beckoning his circle of bodyguards to go with him... incensed...

He grabbed Sheppard's jaw, squeezing finger nails deep into Sheppard's cheeks, twisting his head, making him watch the other rebels being unloaded.

"You have been whipped, humiliated, made an example of. You know what it feels like. You wish to put them through this? I thought you cared more for your fellow man! Clearly not! Clearly as selfish as Loryeffi, expecting others to die for your own ideals. Look at them, John! Look at them! It's you who condemns them, not I!"

Selemon lowered his other hand over Sheppard's shoulder, clutching at the cuts there and Sheppard choked back a cry. "Say it! Say that you will love and serve me! Say that you love me and I will spare you so much pain."

He still kept silent. His eyes forced to watch Jaleen, whipped till she fell. And Selemon followed his gaze... thought he had him.

"Ah, women too... Won't you have mercy on them? I could have them raped, here... here in the open." And Sheppard struggled against his bindings, against the hand that held his head, that pulled his face back, inches from Selemon's own, the Senator's breath on his skin. "You wouldn't like that, would you? Oh no... then say it, swear to me John, that you will serve me and I will see that they are protected."

But John was winning again. He saw it in Selemon's eyes as the chanting in the background ratcheted up to screaming, in its own defiance as guards attacked the crowd.

"Joherner! Joherner!" He mustn't give in now.

"Selemon, you can't touch me... ever..."

Selemon, face poisonous with hatred, grabbed the cloth at Sheppard's waist and pulled it free. Sheppard flinched, and wished he weren't naked again, yeah, but he'd chosen, hadn't he? He'd chosen this. He was going to win. It was the last thing he was ever going to do, but he was going to win...

"Dignity is important to you! I know you! You wish to die in shame?" shouted Selemon.

"Selemon, go fuck yourself!" he hissed out. Selemon's mouth curled and he push Sheppard's face away with a half-punch, walking off, gesturing over a bowl of water to wash his hands.

"Hang this stinking filth up!"

"Selemon! Please! Don't!" And Rodney had pushed his way to the front, to Selemon's side, had dared to pull on the Senator's arm. To be shaken off, but John saw nothing more...

...the sky... as hands seized him, dragging him backwards, heels, legs ploughing the ground... back, back, head lolling, sick at the upside down world... sky... and then the pole... and dropped to the ground... arching his back and crying out with the pain there... a scaffolding of sorts that guards climbed, two ropes thrown down, snaking through the clear blue... hands that loosened the knots at his wrists... he fought them... fought the pain and thrashed with his whole body... and a fist knocked his head to keep still... shook his head, dazed... fought again... till he couldn't, they held him so damned tight... hands all over him, stretching his arms beyond human, beyond being able to breath... couldn't struggle... couldn't... scarcely... breath... and the knots re-tied tight and secure... needed to breath... couldn't scarcely breath... the muscles to his lungs splitting... hell... hell... down in the dirt, the scuffling of feet and sandals... the cries as others were whipped... the distant cries of 'Joherner'...

...glimpses of bodies hoisted up to their crosses... his own body... jerked upwards suddenly... hauled up by the ropes... agony as his back scraped against the pole... hanging, suspended, his whole weight taken by his wrists, his stretched arms, his lungs... breath only as grunts... pass out... vision blurred... why couldn't he pass out?... guards' bodies close to his head, pushing it forward sharply... the stabbing, searing cut at every nerve... more rope threaded behind his neck... no... no... lashing the horizontal to the pole... could raise his head now... to ease the muscles of his back and arms... closed his eyes tight...

...a guard laughing, wrapping his arms around Sheppard's lower legs, heaving on them... no!... his whole body, back, stomach, thighs drawn tight to burning, to breaking... no... no... the world spun... the world misted at the edges... a near silence... except his low half-moans... the only way he could breathe... scarcely aware of his feet, twisted and pointed downwards and secured on either side of the pole.

Then... they left him to die...

He was a cross in the desert.

-oAo-


	16. Chapter 16

Madacran

Chapter Sixteen

Rodney had pleaded with him. For old time's sake. For heaven's sake. For God's sake. But Kelsoe didn't owe Sheppard anything. Sheppard had saved his life once. But Sheppard had also killed Rosie. No. God had killed Rosie. He owed God even less.

Kelsoe gazed ahead. Rigid in his duty. Gazed straight ahead at the line of crucifixes. This was his life now. Sheppard had saved him for this. Duty to Selemon who would help him find God and kill him. This was his life now.

Rodney had pleaded with him. 'Does it mean nothing to you that we three are from Earth? This is barbaric. I thought you marine types… well, didn't you take an oath once? Isn't it against everything you fought for once? Does it mean nothing to you? I guess... not…'

Earth is of little consequence when it is your duty to find and kill God. It's why he was brought to Pegasus.

Earth. And there had been crucifixes there. In houses where God was supposed to live. And you could sit and sing hymns of praise and watch a man die in agony. And Sunday school lessons were a blur but hadn't it been something to do with freedom? With leading people along the way of freedom? With claiming to be a leader of men, a king?

'They took him to Golgotha, the place of the skulls and they crucified him.' And Kelsoe must have said that out loud because McKay stared at him, horrified.

'You're mad, you know that Kelsoe? You're mad.'

No. Not mad. I'm right. God deserves to be killed to allow bad things to happen.

And looking at the crucifixes… the nearest one… the one bearing the body of Sheppard… Perhaps… perhaps Sheppard is... God. Perhaps he is God come back to lead people to freedom once more.

Why hadn't Kelsoe thought of that before? Five years at Atlantis. All that luck. When nothing seemed to touch him. His ATA gene better than any others. Hell, even good looks. He's like God hanging there. Dying. Slowly. In the heat of the desert. Face all twisted up and suffering in pain. Every muscle all twisted and suffering. Taut, stretched body, skin glistening with the sweat in the effort to stay alive… which is stupid… because he's going to die… eventually.

Perhaps this is why Kelsoe had staked Sheppard out in the desert all those months ago. Because he'd had an inkling this is how you kill God. Selemon was finishing what Kelsoe had started. He could really admire this guy. He understood what needed to be done. Show God he isn't in control. Can't even stop his own death.

Though, there are no nails. Perhaps Selemon will use nails. Then it would be the same agony of God. Perhaps this time round, God will stay dead.

Then Kelsoe won't lift a finger to save Sheppard. Why should he?

-oAo-

The contents of Rodney's insides were doing something akin to somersaults. Butterflies doing martial arts. Though he'd only been able to eat very little. And in these temperatures, the rest of him wasn't faring too well either.

"Where are you off to?"

"I have to pee some time you know?" he snapped. And Kelsoe simply grunted and nodded to one of the guards to go with him to the area set aside by some tumbled down wall.

The guard was discreet and backed off. Well, the smell was bad enough for the strongest of stomachs, luring in swarms of flies that buzzed noisily in the morning's growing heat. Rodney sort of had to shut his nose, preparing to do the business. He could never get used to lifting the tunic. Somehow it always seemed to get in the way, leaving embarrassing damp patches that dried to an obvious yellow.

And why was he even thinking of all this stuff? This was awful. Sheppard was dying and here he was mulling over laundry problems. Anything... anything to take his mind off things.

A guy sidled up to his right side, touching elbows almost. For heaven's sake! Couldn't he find someplace else? And Rodney, never one for such close proximity in these matters, instinctively stopped mid flow and made to shift away.

"No, stay still," came a mumbled voice, from beneath the hood of a cloak far too hot in this weather. Rodney froze though there had been no hint of a threat. This wasn't some robber about to plunge a dagger in his heart. Nor someone about to offer... services of intimacy. The voice sounded... pleading, certainly educated... vaguely familiar. Rodney had deduced that in three words? He must be getting good.

His brain did some mental finger clicking. This was one of Sheppard's cronies. From the night in the courtyard, from that other time Sheppard had died but, of course, he couldn't remember the name. Crap, it was on the tip of his tongue. It'd been called out in all the madness and mayhem. Teflon?

He turned to check that the guard hadn't spotted the guy. You'd think a disguise like that, and it had to be a disguise, should be ringing alarm bells but the guard was distracted, watching Sheppard. Oh so not wanting to miss a second of a good crucifixion, huh?

"No, keep looking at the wall. Look natural," instructed the man.

Natural? Peeing? So it was on and off, trying to make it last, while he listened. He couldn't exactly whistle nonchalantly, not how he was feeling... depressed... so deeply depressed...

"I'm... I'm..." And then, the guy... _sobbed_? What the crap should Rodney do now? And he raised a hand and then let it fall helplessly to his side. Weep with him? He felt like it. Put an arm around him to console him? Pat him on the back and go 'there, there'? Pass him a Kleenex. But Rodney could do patient. At this very moment in time, Rodney could do oodles of patience. He could listen to this guy's whole miserable, cheerless life story, and then, tell his own, which he was certain would take ten times longer, because... he so didn't want to go back, go back there, to where Sheppard was dying only fifty yards away.

Teflon then spoke in a torrent of hissed whispers. "I've a weapon, a Traveller's weapon. It is dismantled so it may be hidden in the hem of my cloak. This way I passed through the search. I desired to kill Selemon, but the tent conceals him and too many guards prevent approach. So, I have decided. I intend to take the life of Jaleen. I won't let her suffer. If the opportunity arises, before I am captured, I will put Joherner out of his misery too? I am good shot. I will not miss. This is agreeable?"

Rodney swallowed hard. This was too much... too much to bear, here in such a sordid place... here... giving this guy permission to kill Sheppard? It all should have been so much... what? Nobler.

The tears pricked at his nose. This was to be Sheppard's miracle? And Sheppard had asked, as good as asked for a mercy killing days ago. And Rodney hadn't been able to do it... and if he had, Sheppard wouldn't be suspended up in the Madacran desert air. But how could Rodney do this? Ethics... this was euthanasia after all. How could he play at God and condone the taking of another man's life? But if there had ever been a need over the gyroscope, there certainly was more of one now.

"Yes, ok," consented Rodney, all too aware of the hitch catching in his voice.

The man silently slipped away.

Simple words and it was done. As easy as that. No, not easy. How had Sheppard felt when he'd killed Sumner? Like this? Torn and twisted inside? But, quite honestly, what was another drop of torn-ness and twisted-ness in the ocean of torn-ness and twisted-ness Rodney was already feeling? He was going to watch his friend die whichever way.

The guard came over and pulled at his arm, and Rodney numbly nodded and led the way back.

-oAo-

"Get away with you!"

Sheppard started at the shout, cried out as nerves, scalded into awareness, lanced as fire-hot iron rods across his shoulders, speared as flaming darts down his back.

Black shadows flapped, stirring up clouds of dust at his feet. Secrids. He was easy prey. But the guard had decided that it wasn't his time yet...

And he had to begin again.

Keeping his lungs low and shuddering, to keep the agony at bay.

And he again imagined Teyla meditating.

'Still and calm. Control your breathing. Control your pain.'

'Yeah. Teyla. I can do this.' But he was failing, stifling the sobs catching in his throat with every inhale and every exhale.

'Imagine somewhere peaceful.' And he couldn't...

"I can't... I can't. Hot. Hot," he moaned out loud, not knowing that he did. His whole body eaten by pain, his skin as a furnace, tormented by the slightest touch of the dozens of flies greedy for his blood. Sick. Eyes piercing-aching in their sockets. Dehydrated he knew, unable to sweat even. Couldn't even swallow. It was all he could do to keep down the rising panic, that he could do nothing, hanging here, nothing... ever again...

He had to settle on a 'somewhere peaceful' as the distant horizon, over to the hill, to its sparse broken trees, where heat mirages of the mid-day sun danced crazily, shut his eyes to the nausea and hold that vision tight in his mind. Blind himself to the fact he was human... and suffering...

Blind himself to the humiliation of the public show he was giving those on the dais. Selemon had twice sent over a retainer to demand yet again that he changed his mind. He was winning. He was winning. He still had that control.

"She says she has a message!" Jeez! And he threw open his eyes with the shock of the guard touching his lower leg. "Thought you'd gone to sleep there! Jaleen says she has a message. I'm passing it on. She healed my sister once. She says you'd understand. She says, 'you're protected.' ''

"Pro... tect... ted?" he asked hoarsely across cracked lips, uncomprehending, though he knew he ought. "Pro..."

"Yes, that's what she said. I think she's gone stupid in the sun. I hope that doesn't mean someone's going to try and rescue you. There's been enough bloodshed. They've cleared the worse of the trouble makers on the hill. No one would stand a chance."

The guard disappeared out of his range of vision before Sheppard could find enough moisture in his mouth, enough strength to speak again. He had soon learned he could only look straight ahead or down slightly. He was forced to a fragile balance of his head on his neck, leaning on the upright behind, the slightest movement seeming to slice open every muscle of his shoulders and arms. He gingerly tried a glance towards Jaleen, but failed in the attempt, gasping, setting off fresh tremors that shook his body.

But 'protected?' What did she mean? His brain couldn't sort it out. She could never heal him. Never free him. An earlier glimpse had told him she was three crosses away. He needed to see her. He needed to apologise. And he struggled to turn again. No! The guard. Where was he? Would the guard come back? Carry a message for him? Come back. Where. Where are you, dammit? He needed to apologise. He needed to say sorry to all the others. They should all be protected. Not him. They should all be protected _from _him. From his stubbornness. Jaleen. Jaleen. He had killed her. And now he could do nothing. Nothing.

He sensed the device... didn't see... sensed the dart that pierced her heart.

And screamed.

"Jaleen!!!"

And fell forward into darkness...

-oAo-

Selemon paced the dais. Rodney sat close enough to witness the way that he muttered and ranted and wrung his hands with eyes all sort of glazed over. Officials, the privileged, the honoured, gentlemen, ladies, exchanged wary glances. And Rodney wondered what the Madacran word was for cuckoo because these guys were certainly thinking it. Conversation had stopped. The silence, dangerous. Could Rodney ever hope that these guys would pull a 'Caesar'? Rodney would join in... 'et tu, Brute?' But Kelsoe stood faithful, impassive, solid as a rock at his master's side, and everyone would have been checked for knives.

"Why doesn't he say it? Why doesn't he say it? It's so simple. Say it! Say it! Say that you'll serve me! Love me! It's all I ask... _want_... Stop it! Stop it! Stupid! Want... want... Pouting like a child! Ha! That's what she said, Docky! Your Meria, that I pout like a child. Does a child do this? All _this_?" And he waved a toga'd arm towards the crucifixes. "Does a child have this power? To take these lives? No! A child does not!"

There was a battle of wits across the short strip of desert. He might die soon, but Sheppard was winning.

Selemon sat and impatiently beckoned over a minnia bowl. One of the slaves, of course, had to try inhaling the incense first. And since the poor guy didn't keel over and lay writhing on the floor, it was assumed it hadn't been laced with poison. It wouldn't last. Slowly Selemon was getting used to everything he was sniffing and then he'd be worse than ever.

"At least... at least, we have weeded out the last of the rebels, no?" Selemon said, smiling weakly, attempting some semblance of his normal self, looking round for reassurance, for that support that he knew he must be losing. A low murmur of approval followed from those who still did not dare to oppose Selemon. He might be on the brink of insanity, but the man of was still capable of many things. Cold blooded killing included.

"Another sixty or so prisoners from the crowd, and..." inhaling a deep draught of the drug, "Kelsoe tells me they soon apprehended the man that killed the healer. His name was Toplon?" And Kelsoe nodded. "He was, in fact, the healer's husband. Well, he can join his wife's rotten corpse tomorrow. How quaint and romantic, eh?" And he chuckled with his voice, but his eyes, no, they weren't showing the least little bit of humour, but darted blackly over the faces of those around him. Noting names. Those who laughed with him. And those who didn't.

And Rodney didn't.

Not that it mattered. He didn't care what Selemon thought of him anymore. And Rodney was sure he would never laugh ever again anyway. Teflon had failed to kill Sheppard. Though Rodney was unsure whether he was glad of the outcome. No. He was actually relieved. No. Alarmed. He'd been watching Jaleen for what seemed an eternity and that was never going be the most fun way to spend a morning in any one's books. He was so tense he thought he'd have to ask for permission to visit the peeing place again. And he knew it was callous to be praying under his breath, willing her to die.

'Where are you, Teflon? Where are you?' But it'd come to mean so much...

This Jaleen had spoken to a guard who had duly walked over to Sheppard... What?... and he'd been forced to watch his friend then... something was happening... apart from all... from all... the obvious... Sheppard had become agitated. He'd seemed like he was trying to twist himself from... from... whatever... And when Sheppard had screamed, Rodney was sure then that Teflon had actually missed, despite claiming to be a good shot and had succeeded in killing Sheppard first... a blood curdling scream... clichéd but how else could you have described it? And Rodney's chest went tight at the thought that his friend had finally gone. This time forever, but they'd thrown water, and somehow, he lived still.

Once Rodney had joked in the mess on Atlantis, 'So, Sheppard, when did you sell your soul to the devil because I'm convinced you're immortal, I really am.' 'Just lucky, Rodney.' 'Yeah, so I repeat, when did you sell your soul?'

"Come! Come! How are the wagers coming along?" cajoled Selemon, still trying to breathe some life into the failing party spirit of those on the platform, elbowing his neighbour. "You believe, this Joherner will last two hours, Bator? Oh, I think not! One hour, ten minutes. The secrids know it is far closer than that. He is in great pain. He's not hiding it very well, is he? I thought he'd be stronger than this. And the people consider him a hero! The fools! What say you, Diotrinum?"

Time passed slowly. Crap, a second passed slowly. And Rodney could do nothing but study his toes. Anything but think about the reality of a cross in the desert. He looked at the leather straps of sandals. Six across the top. One round the heel. Neat stitching really considering everything was handmade here. Smudges of dust. Specks of something dark… oh… pee… But he liked sandals. At least he liked sandals where it was hot. If it were cold, or rainy or stormy or drizzly or foggy, he was sure he'd prefer his boots. Here in this tent it was hot. What, 40 degrees? And that was with slaves fanning them. God, how hot must it be on a cross in the desert? Oh God... Sheppard... oh God... and they were tears that he wiped from his eyes.

"Why doesn't he say it, Docky?" The effects of the minnia had worn off. The pacing had begun again. "You know him, why doesn't he say it? Look at him! You're not looking at him!" And Rodney had to take his eyes from the floor once more and look in the direction of the first cross, but he wouldn't look... not actually _look_. He fixed his sight at the sky somewhere overhead, to where the black secrids flew in slow thermals. If Rodney survived all this, if he ever lived to a ripe old age, _if he ever lived to next week even_, this, and what had passed in the villa, was going to be the stuff of all his nightmares.

"You go! You go and ask him! You go and ask him to say it!"

"Me?" And that heat again. In his stomach. Dread. Nothing new. The same dread of the past few hours but a billion fold.

"Yes, you! He'll listen to you! Tell him... tell him... I will give the order for nails to be used!"

"Selemon... don't..."

"A friend can tell him or Kelsoe?! You chose."

-oAo-

It was like his mind putting the brakes, the inertial dampeners on his feet. He lacked the will to move forward. Yet, there was still some part of his brain, that wanted to do this, his last chance to try and persuade Sheppard to give in. But that wouldn't be fair on Sheppard. Why try and break the man's resolve now? He'd be no better than Selemon.

Rodney was caught between a rock and a hard place.

Rocks. Hard places. The ground. He could look anywhere but he couldn't bear to look at the cross.

None of this would have happened if he hadn't been quite so fatalistic, believing they were stranded here forever. He had failed Sheppard and now it was too late to put matters right.

His sandals puffed up clouds of dust. His ears picked up the occasional calls of 'Joherner' from the hill, the false laughter from the dais, the rhythmic flap of the secrid wings, the moans of the dying...

He told himself that it wasn't Sheppard. Crap, who was he trying to kid? But... it wasn't Sheppard.

The Sheppard he knew wore a black uniform, wielded a gun, did deeds of daring-do, jumped into jumpers and jets, and saved the world and Pegasus.

It wasn't Christ either. He had to tell himself that too. Jesus depicted as pure, white, sublime, clean, untouchable... and closer now, he had to glance up... here was Sheppard-not-Sheppard. Dirt, filth, skin reddened by the scorching sun, skin streaked with old sweat, skin caked with old blood, flinching with the pain and flies. Split, swollen lips. White residue of saliva marking the beard. Coarse hairy ropes that cut and chafed raw welts at the wrists and ankles. Every vein, muscle, sinew, etched and raised. Face contorted. Pelvis and ribcage pronounced, emphasizing the diaphragm that struggled with every breath. This just wasn't Lt. Col. John Sheppard racked on a cross out in the desert sun...

He felt awkward and studied his feet yet again, shuffling, kicking aimlessly at the dust. What was he going to say? What do you say to your friend being tortured like this? There were no manuals for this. No computer guides. No 'How to converse with someone being crucified' for Dummies.

Sheppard's eyes were closed. He probably wasn't even aware Rodney was there.

"Touch his leg. State your name," instructed the guard.

"It's me," he said, still trying to find something of interest in his sandals. He wouldn't care if Sheppard didn't wake up and he could just return to Selemon. There would be no need for nails. His friend was nearly dead anyhow. Selemon would win his wager even if Sheppard wouldn't give his oath.

"How'm I doin'?"

And Rodney looked up, surprised.

Yes, this was Sheppard. Strength. And always making things easy for him. Always made life easy for him... Talking past tense here... don't...

And Sheppard… a cough, a gasp, a guttural 'aargh.' Eyes that struggled to stay open and a throat that fought for moisture.

Rodney wanted to say, don't talk, save your… what? _Last dying breaths?_

"You said aargh."

"No," came faintly. One simple word was killing Sheppard and it was killing a part of Rodney to hear him. But they could both pretend otherwise.

"You did."

"No."

"And you passed out."

"No."

"Oh, so that was napping? Not a good idea. If they think you're dead, they'll stick you with a spear to make sure." Oh, he could so do this and it didn't matter... here with Sheppard... right here... like old times... "And you wouldn't want that to happen... on top of... um... everything else..."

"Thanks... adver... advice."

"And I think you're going to faint like a girl... big time... soon." He hoped not. He hoped that soon, Sheppard would pass peacefully from this world and Rodney found himself longing once more that Teflon's plan had worked out.

"Think... so?"

"Yeah."

"M... month's p...pay?"

"Oh, I'm not going to take money off you because it's guaranteed, though... you could change your mind and give in to Selemon."

"No." And he was in pain, but Rodney knew, even through all that, Sheppard had tensed at the suggestion.

"I was sent to ask," and he shrugged though Sheppard couldn't see it. It obviously hurt Sheppard to move other than look out to the distant hill. Rodney rubbed his sweaty neck in some sort of sympathy. "You're winning Sheppard. For what it's worth. Selemon is losing it over there. You're going to win."

And should he tell him about the nails now? No, surely Selemon wouldn't use them. Surely Selemon was bluffing. No one could be that mean... could they?

"What's his answer?" interrupted the guard and Rodney started, nearly forgetting the man had been waiting close by. "It's no?" And the scaffolding steps were being dragged over. And another guard carried a leather pouch. Full of...

"Rod... ney..."

"Wait a minute! Wait a minute! He needs more time to consider!" And that was the best stall that Rodney could do? But he _had_ pushed the guard to one side and stood himself between the cross and the guard in charge.

"Rod...ney... "

"He ain't getting any more time! Those are our orders! You!" This to one of the group of guards. "Escort him back!"

"No! You can't! Sheppard!" looking up, and he had to be quick, but in his heart he knew it didn't make a crap's worth of difference. "They're going to use nails! Nails! If you don't give Selemon your oath!"

Sheppard understood.

"Go."

"Sheppard..."

"Go."

And it was just like the last time they were in the desert.

A guard was already ascending the wooden rungs.

Two others had arms across Rodney's chest, urging him to return to the dais. He fought back.

"You want to watch this?" they asked. "You can if you want!" And no, no, he didn't, but he had to do _something._

A mallet. A nail in the hand of a guard. Six inches of thick black iron.

"You can't do this to him!"

"Selemon has given the order!" He has? Rodney deflated. Despair creeping in at those edges, driving the short-lived anger out. He couldn't take on these guards. They were too big and burly. Too well armed.

The rope at the right wrist, untied now, flopped down to the ground like some dead snake as gutted as he was. A second guard held Sheppard's arm in position and Sheppard, now with eyes wide open, strained to see, disbelieving, what was going on at his side. Panic on his face, and who could blame him?

"Kay... go..."

Go? What? Back to Selemon? Where he'd ram some part of that man's anatomy down his own throat?

"Go... don't… watch - "

And Rodney flinched, turned abruptly, clenched his jaw, held his breath, squeezed his eyes tight shut. Against the image burnt there. Knowing it was going to be held forever for as long as he lived, like some computer memory that could never be erased. The first nail driven into the right wrist. The jolt like electric that passed through Sheppard's body. And another scream… The blood instantly oozing. Not spurting. The key was to avoid the arteries. Rodney knew that. Use the carpal bones to suspend the condemned. This was still going to be a slow death.

Trembling, Rodney dared to breathe and look again. His pity tight as his own driven nail in his chest.

Words quietly left Rodney's lips. "Can't you see? He just can't take anymore." Pleading to deaf ears. He might as well not be here. He hadn't been able to prevent this.

Sheppard's head had lolled forward.

"Told you, told you, you would pass out," said Rodney almost silently.

Perhaps Sheppard would quickly go into shock now and that would be a mercy. Perhaps there was no perhaps about it. One of the guards on the scaffolding pulled at Sheppard's hair, shaking him. Another passed up a carrier with water, that they poured over his head, stunning him into wakefulness for the second nail, his whole body convulsing, shivering with pain, his lungs struggling with only the feeblest of coughing.

And Rodney watched, despite being told not to. Mesmerized. Watched him attempt to lift his head, look with horror at his mutilated right wrist, letting his head fall heavily.

Watched as the guards moved the scaffolding, preparing for the second nail. Heard Sheppard let out low hopeless growls, conscious enough to know what was coming next. Watched the water dripping from his hair and beard. Blood from his wrist. Dark spots falling to and marking the sand. Heard him gasp out 'no' or 'go' – Rodney couldn't be sure… Tension flexing in his left arm, as the rope was removed. Watched mesmerized as the guards steadied his hand. As they hammered down with the mallet. Watched mesmerised as the second nail split open the lower palm, hearing wood and bones crunch beneath the wrist. Watched as Sheppard's body jerked rigid in one big giant spasm and then fell limp.

He broke away. It was Rodney now who couldn't take anymore. He didn't need escorting. He spun round and stormed back to the dais, his back twitching, knowing that behind him, further nails would be pounded through the side of Sheppard's heels, pinning his feet to the upright pole. They'd done everything else as on Earth. There was no reason to be different now.

And rage was good. Rage concentrated on Selemon. It cut out the scene that was playing at the cross. And Kelsoe had better not stop him-

"You, Selemon! You are... you are one dickhead!" It was the best expletive he could muster, drawn from some memory of Lorne's marines... and it fell flat. Evaporated.

And even Kelsoe was showing surprise.

Selemon sat feet drawn up in his chair, arms curled round himself for comfort, desperate, close to tears, attempting to look round Rodney.

"He wouldn't say it, would he? How can I – how can I" and his voice dropped. He straightened and reached out and pulled Rodney in closer by his tunic. His eyes still staring fixed to that space beyond Rodney's arm. He was about to let Rodney in on a secret? To trust Rodney to a confidence? Hadn't he realised that Rodney wanted to do nothing more than kill him if he could?

"How can I _lead _my people? How can I lead Madacran to greatness? To its place of supremacy in the galaxy. If... if I do not command all before me? If the people cannot perceive that Joherner is mine to command? I do not want him to die. Why won't he say it? It would be so easy you would think? Why won't he say... pledge that he is devoted... loyal... that he loves me...Why won't he say it? I never ever wanted him to die. Why won't he say it?"

-oAo-

He was biting his nails. First left. Then right.

Don't do that Dochelimar, dear. It is not becoming of a gentleman.

'No mama'.

Then pulling, clutching, wringing at the edges of his toga.

Don't do that Dochelimar, dear. One must seek to earn respect. Soiled grubby garments will never earn respect.

'No mama'.

Faces that doubt him.

"Ha! She doubted me too! Don't do this! Don't do that! See what I did do! My pleasure. Oh I enjoyed that! Gagged her for good! Ha! Literally! No mama, no mama. And she still wouldn't say it. Would never say she loved her son. Ha! So gagged her. Ha! Then... then she could not say it... it all turns to dust eventually... grounded into the desert. You think I'm mad? I see it in your eyes that you think I'm mad! Dust. Dust. It all goes to dust. Her eyes above the gag. Jocimus dead. Control. Control. I told her then. It was me. Ha! My own brother! See how I change the course of lives. The Universe! Docky, you tell them. You tell them I'm going to change the Universe! Dust. Dust. It all goes to dust."

He'd said that out loud? No. No. He'd had too much of the minnia in this heat. Head not clear.

Pacing. Pacing.

He listened. Silence. The occasional flapping of the tent's fabric in the hot desert wind. Apart from that, silence.

"Silence, Joherner? Still won't say it then? Nothing? Nothing? No words for Selemon? Poor Selemon. Poor, poor Selemon. They whisper behind their hands. You think I do not know how you all conspire? Joherner will sort you all. He will. He will. Papa was good at that too. Kept things quiet. 'Papa, don't... don't look at me like that'. Oh respect. Must maintain respect. You watch? You all watch? Why are you all watching me?! You would oppose me! None of you dare! Not a man among who dares. Joherner," and he raises an arm towards the cross, "_he _dares. You are all as trowsy calves. Joherner is more than your equal. He will sort you all. And who commands Joherner? It is not Joherner. Joherner is nailed to a cross because I ordered it so. It is I that rules over Joherner! It is I that commands all! You do not believe me? I have only to ask and Joherner will say it. He will say that he loves me. I will have you all saying that you love me. Kelsoe. I must speak with Joherner. Accompany me."

The sunlight.

Brutal.

White.

There is a grave in the desert.

He stumbled.

She would not say that she loved him even at the end. All is dust now. And the dust kicks up at his feet. Dust. Dust. All is turning to dust. Failure. He mustn't fail. He mustn't fail his father. He mustn't fail his mother. Dirty grubby finger marks on a clean toga. And his brother Jocimus was the most beautiful male. See how Jocimus stands naked. Olive eyes that shone with smiles. Black tousled hair that asked for finger caresses. Puberty brought dark hair to his thighs, to his chest, to his groin. Fine markings on tanned skin. An athlete with toned muscles. Perfection. God.

"Blood, Joherner?" Drops scattered in the sand below the cross. "Yes. Yes. Of course." And Jocimus lay beaten, bleeding, dying in the desert. He would never tell _her_ where he'd buried the youth.

The skin flinches when I touch. Curious. Pain. Pain that consumes.

"You think I do not understand pain? I know of pain that consumes. It needn't be like this, Jocimus. Say that you love me."

Fascinating. The way that the leg curves into the pain of the wound on the heel. The way the chest stutters.

"Not so brave now. I could save you. I alone have this power whether you live or die," he says gently.

The half-sobs. The face contorted. No longer perfection. And yet...

"Say that you will love me, brother." He lays his head against the legs of the man on the cross and caresses his cheek there. And he laid his head against the legs of the man long gone. Cold. Dust. When all around is bright heat. Wrong. Wrong. Mama will know. Mama will know what I've done.

"Why won't you say that you love me! Why won't you? Please, why won't you say it?" He sniffles.

Pushes away from the cross. Brushes a hand across his face.

"What do any of them know of love? What do any of them know about anything? Dust."

He stands now in all his glory.

"I command it! Me! Dochelimar Selemon the Sixth. I command you to say that you will serve me, Joherner! Me! Me! Ruler of all Madacran. Ruler of all Pegasus. I command it! Say you will love and obey me. Your one true lord. For I am lord of all. Say it! Say it! Say it to your God!"

"You are God?" asks Kelsoe.

And Selemon spreads his arms out wide. Ecstasy. Magnificence. Power. Turning and turning. The dust at his feet. Bathing in the sun of the desert. Power magnified through him.

"Yes! Yes! I. Am. GOD!"

And Kelsoe lifts his gun, aims and fires.

-oAo-

The world shatters and splinters into shards, motes of shimmering glass that pierce the back of his eyes. He exists only as dark and light. When light threatens, he is pain and pain and pain. Darkness is silence. Freedom. Light is the strangled grunting effort of lungs persuading life back into him.

Slowly, even the pain is muted. He lives only as dark and haziness where figures move and words float up to him but nothing registers. It's just there and happens. Even his struggled breathing is not reality. One breath after another after another. Rhythmic. It'll stop soon and he won't be surprised. It'll just happen.

It won't happen.

Jaleen died and protected him. It's there, that thought, that last thread that won't unravel, that strengthens and rewinds, and tightens and binds him back to life, to the pain, unwelcome.

Someone touches his leg. It's the way the guards get his attention. To see whether he lives or dies. He lives. Shame at the moans that leave his dry cracked lips. He lives and knows reality again. Nailed to a cross on four points, skewering the sickening agony through into his skull.

Selemon. In person. To gloat perhaps. Who calls him Joherner. Jocimus? And brother? And that's confusing.

"Why won't you say that you love me?"

Same old.

Can't...

"I. Am. GOD."

Yeah...

A shot rings out that jerks every nerve. Shit! And pain cuts through fresh like he's the one who's been shot. There's yelling. And he has to look somehow, he needs to _see_... to focus and see...

Kelsoe throws down his gun. Guards huddle over the body of Selemon. Kelsoe takes steps backwards. Looks up to Sheppard. Draws out his sword.

"I'm sorry, Colonel. I'm truly sorry." It's Private Dominic Kelsoe's voice again. Calm and steady. But... regret.

No.

He must get this clearer. It's blurred but he sure that Kelsoe falls to his knees. No...

Kelsoe's unlacing his armour. Sure of it.

No... don't...

And Sheppard twists at the nails. No! And the black nearly takes him and he fights it off.

"No!"

And Kelsoe carefully positions his sword on the ground, holding it point up and falls on its blade.

-oAo-


	17. Chapter 17

Madacran 

Chapter Seventeen

It was growing colder now. Soon air would run out. And he wondered how much of a luxury it was to keep the one auxiliary light on. No. A necessity. He needed to see to Sheppard.

The man slept fitfully, troubled by pain and bad dreams. Rodney sat on the floor, slumped up against the bulkhead, snuggling down into a blanket and watched him. After all, now that the jumper had finally succumbed to total systems death, there was little else to do. Except perhaps to mentally check power ratios, to ensure yet again that the light wasn't an extravagance and wouldn't act as a drain on the SOS signal he'd relayed out. No. A necessity. He'd allowed himself that much comfort when he'd been trapped fathoms down under the sea that one time. When the possibility looms that life might actually be short, comfort is a necessity.

Had he done the right thing? To drag Sheppard out here, into indigo space above Madacran, knowing that the probability of the jumper ultimately failing was... astronomically high... ironic metaphor figuring where they were.

But, at least the jumper, now free of the planet, could act as some sort of satellite beacon. Albeit weak. Albeit so weak that if they'd pitched themselves up on the doorstep of Atlantis, it was doubtful that Atlantis would ever pick it up.

He still hadn't a clue where they were. He'd never been able to coax navigation back into life. His laptop had disappeared from the jumper along with so many other things. Even if he had been able to fix the ailing jumper with nothing more than a band aid, they were truly and irrevocably lost. That was the one immutable factor as to why he hadn't attempted repairing the jumper in the first place. Accessing a quick succession of gates as they did, Rodney had no base line from which to re-trace their steps.

But... and he consoled himself with this... he'd sat and worked out the simple math. How long they'd been absent from Atlantis, and finally it had come to him, versus the Daedalus Pegasus schedule. By his calculations, a visit from the Daedalus was due right now. That sort of doubled their chances of being discovered. And that was very simple math indeed. Even if it meant that the odds were now, say, two in a trillion, rather than one in a trillion? Hmmm...

Of course, there were infinite variables to throw a loose cogwheel in the works. Daedalus had spent so long looking for them already, the schedule was all akimbo. Daedalus had been destroyed by Wraith. Atlantis had been destroyed by Wraith.

Wraith finding drifting jumper first...

So he watched Sheppard, and Sheppard looked so ill, it did something to Rodney's insides. If Sheppard didn't wake up again it wouldn't matter. Wishing death on him again? Though, it'd mean that Rodney would die lonely.

So he watched Sheppard. And in between all those calculations, came those unwelcome memories of their time on Madacran. The most recent, the most vivid, of course.

The cross.

He shivered and it wasn't the cold.

Confusion, and his panic. He hadn't known who they were. Strangers all of them. A couple of senators from the dais even. Strangers but all eager to help. Please don't crowd, give him room. Be sort of like stupid to suffocate him now, wouldn't it? But he hadn't complained out loud. How could he? One of the senators had offered the use of his villa, not far from the nearest town gate. He'd promised to provide physicians, servants and care. The best. And Rodney had known it was a risk, but he'd been faced with entrusting Sheppard into their hands, while he got himself to the jumper. It was going to take time and, judging from the looks of him, Sheppard might have died while he was gone. But he hadn't died so far and that had got to be a good sign, hadn't it?

And right then, Sheppard had been problems holding that blood in. Rodney had been good and remembered what Jenny had said about spears and spikes and arrows... you don't pull them out. He guessed that included crucifixion nails too. Though Jenny had never said.

It hadn't been easy. The guards had managed to carefully lever both Sheppard's wrists and one heel away from the timber with the nails intact, but the fourth nail had ripped clean through the flesh of the left heel... If Sheppard could survive that, he could survive anything but he'd been out cold again, and that had happened as soon as the first nail had been pulled out of the wood.

Strangers that had cared for Sheppard.

Strangers that had busily set to, ripping and tearing up hems of togas and tunics to bind round the nails, to wrap round Sheppard's midriff, and togas and tunics hadn't been mentioned by Jenny either. Well, at least, not while Rodney was listening. Which might not have been that often. Say blood to Rodney and he sort of blanked out. But he always learnt fast and he guessed that's what he always did, learnt fast on the job, and he'd got to work fast now because, however well intentioned these people were, they weren't ever going to provide Sheppard with the urgent twenty first century medical attention that he needed.

And somehow, and this really had traumatised Rodney and set up a panic from hell, Sheppard had woken, right at that time they had moved him to a wagon, and he had moaned and had then stared at his hands in horror and had struggled and it'd been agonising to watch and it'd been difficult to re-assure him, to remind him that he was safe...

The Madacrans had made some sort of portable makeshift bed, bolstered by mattresses and a skyscraper pile of embroidered pillows that propped Sheppard on his side taking weight off the wounds on his back and shoulders. It meant that he could be transferred from villa to jumper with little disturbance. Rodney had quickly rigged him up with an oxygen mask. A miracle that the oxygen cylinders were even here still. When he'd first come to the crash site weeks ago, it was soon clear that someone... someone with the equivalent-in-weight brains of a housefly and that was probably paying them a compliment they didn't deserve... had ransacked the jumper, leaving little intact.

He hadn't dared use the IV equipment. He'd theorised that it might have perished or deteriorated when the hatch had been left open to the heat and the elements. He knew he should be getting fluids into Sheppard, but it had to be a slow process by mouth whenever Sheppard rallied round, which he did from time to time. The Madacrans had thought of everything, providing some sort of drinking bottle. He guessed they used it for babies. They'd given him water, laced with some herbal painkiller or sedative. There had been no medication left in the jumper either, Kelsoe having taken the jumper's supplies all those months ago. They even had Sheppard cleaned up so he looked halfway presentable. Cut out the matted hair. Trimmed the beard a little, but hadn't shaved him. There were too many cuts and his lips were too sore and swollen. They'd found a salve for that. A tunic to wear. Extra bandages. And as he just couldn't get warm, extra blankets.

Strangers but everything had been thought of... so really... Sheppard ought to live...

Log cabins.

It was all like Christmas in log cabins when he was a kid. The dark silence outside. And Sheppard's breathing like the way the wind whispered snow up against shuttered doors and windows. Except there were no log fires and this wasn't all warm and cosy and Mother wouldn't come and tuck him in. This was waiting for the Daedalus. Or for death. And there was one side of him, wishing that Sheppard would wake and he wouldn't feel quite so lonely, wouldn't die lonely, and the other side, that Sheppard would never ever wake up again and have to face yet another ordeal.

He eyed up the second oxygen bottle. At some point, they were going to have to share...

Sheppard stirred. Eyes fluttered open and Rodney threw off his blanket, shuffling forward to remove the oxygen mask and grab his chance to get him to drink a little more.

Sheppard reacted like he knew the routine now and began to drink without Rodney having to coax him to get the water down him before he fell asleep again, or... he was just that thirsty.

"You're doing fine," Rodney murmured all the same, and he felt like he was patting some puppy dog on the head, but... well... it was heartfelt... a warm gratefulness washing over him that Sheppard was still alive... still in there, fighting.

Guiding the bottle with one hand, he then brushed his free hand across Sheppard's forehead. And Sheppard seemed to start from his slow painful swallowing.

"It's ok... temperature check." And those eyes closed. And Rodney was grateful for that too. He wouldn't need to cover over his new found dread. The skin felt warmer and clammier than an hour ago.

"That's right. You sleep." And he placed the bottle to one side and replaced the mask. He remembered that you shouldn't give too much water, and worried over that too. This was the most that Sheppard had drunk in one go. He really didn't need to be puking up everywhere.

Sure that Sheppard was sleeping again, Rodney set about checking his dressings. Satisfied the wrists now needed no further attention, the hands wrapped up as they were like some boxer's gloves, with only the very tips of fingers and the head of the nails showing, he crawled down to the foot end of the bed and lifted the blankets.

The blood still seeped from that left heel, soaking through the bandages.

A sudden movement from Sheppard made him glance up. Sheppard was staring down the bed, fevered eyes glazed, trying to focus.

"Rodney," and if Rodney weren't familiar with his own name, he'd not have recognised the whisper into the mask. His heart wrenched. Were these going to be Sheppard's last words? He seemed to indicate that he wanted to talk, that he wanted the mask removed and Rodney moved over, leaning across Sheppard's body to pull it down, reaching further still, to turn off the cylinder tap.

"Stopped..."

And, of course, the man would have noticed the silence, so tuned as he was to the jumper's engines. Rodney held back the remark, 'Oh, that's observant.' He would have said it, moons ago...

"I'm sorry," said Rodney. He had so many apologies to make. This seemed like the least of them but he still hated making it. "A couple of hours back. I was right all along, you see. The jumper couldn't be fixed. Not that I... _wanted_ to be proved right. We have six hours of air left including what's in the cylinders." And he pointed to said cylinders. "We have twenty hours of power left to run one light bulb," and he pointed to the light, "and to send out a distress call. So, that should give someone enough time to find our dead bodies, don't you think?"

Rodney shifted back to the foot of the bed, casting his eyes down, concentrating on unrolling yet another bandage round Sheppard's foot. He pushed back the thought of how cold the surrounding skin was or how little Sheppard was reacting to the area around the wound being touched. Perhaps the herbal remedies helped. Perhaps this Jaleen had protected Sheppard after all. Perhaps Sheppard hadn't got that long...

"Not... your fault... Rodney, you tried."

"I dunno, Sheppard. Perhaps it is all my fault. If I hadn't given up, I might have found answers sooner. And I certainly shouldn't have brought us out here. Not unless I was one hundred per cent sure I could do this. I thought... I thought I was putting a wrong, right." Not rescuing Sheppard from the clutches of Selemon was always going to weigh heavily even if it was only another six hours of heaviness.

"Seems like... you have... most to lose... thanks... for trying... for me... though told you... save your... self..." Sheppard closed his eyes again, exhausted. He shouldn't be talking, but Rodney really didn't want to be alone... and he had a confession that he'd wanted to say at the cross and it was good to confess, before you die, wasn't it? Of course, he could also confess that it'd been him who had fed cold water through the showers that day, hid popcorn on several occasions, left the Ancient recording device in Sheppard's room and then had relayed the snoring citywide, had placed droppings of Athosian neker bird in his hair gel, no... that one had been Ronon, though Rodney was certain they'd all been repaid in kind by Sheppard... in multiples... red towel in his whites, the itchy plant seeds in his bed, the laxative in his cereal...

Rodney tied off the bandage and re-covered Sheppard's feet. And yes, he guessed he did have most to lose if Sheppard should die now. He could have lived to a ripe old age on Madacran with Meria, or found a passing Travellers' ship and hitched home. He eased himself over to his place at the bulkhead, pulling up his own solitary blanket snugly to his chin, wondering if he should even give that one up now. Sheppard was noticeably shivering.

"It'll... be... ok... An... Rod... ney..." and those eyes struggled open, trying to find sight of Rodney even though Rodney was only right in front of him, forcing out each stuttering word, "if... when... we get back... don't say... talk... that... room... never..."

And Rodney could respect that, understand that. He truly wished to forget the horror of that room too and was surprised that Sheppard hadn't mentioned it before now. Perhaps Sheppard had been trying to block it out too. "I promise, but there has to be a deal going here. This has got to be a two way thing. No mention of me and Meria either. And you have to make one of your miracles happen, and I'm talking galaxy-sized deus ex machina here, universe-sized white bunnies out of a hat, otherwise we're not going to make it back. Both 'if' and 'when' are going to assume super irrelevance unless you do."

"To... to... mira... miracles."

"Yeah, a glass to miracles." And there was a hint of a smile somewhere in those fading eyes of Sheppard's as he fell asleep once more. Rodney was certain that his breathing was slighter than ever. He leant across to put the mask on Sheppard again. "I should have saved you from Selemon," he murmured, "I should have at least have done that." But he doubted that Sheppard had even heard that part of his confession.

Rodney snuggled down into his blanket again, managing to dose off himself, rehearsing the fuller version, dreaming of snow storms, waking suddenly to silence, believing that the snow and wind had ceased...

"No! No. No. No." His fresh panic washed by a wave of relief, hearing Sheppard's low breathing again, erratic though it was but... he was still here...

He'd woken Sheppard with his scare and Rodney tried to give him water, but Sheppard was way out of it and hardly knew what was being offered. "Come on, try harder, I won't tell you my confession unless you do." Ok, and he put down the bottle and replaced the mask once more. "I'll tell you anyway, perhaps you'll want to jump up and punch me one." And such a sign of life would be a good thing, right now, "Teflon, this Jaleen's husband... he volunteered to kill you too... asked me first... if it was all right... and... and I said yes... because I... well, I couldn't... didn't want to see you like that... no one should... only he got caught... otherwise... huh... otherwise you wouldn't be dying here now... yeah, so what difference does it make? But it's been on my mind, and... so now you know..." He sighed, certain that Sheppard probably hadn't heard that either. And what did he want? Absolution? Forgiveness? But he guessed it was right that you made amends before meeting your Maker.

And the minutes passed and the tens of minutes passed. And Rodney was certain that he never did have this sort of patience, to simply sit and... wait. He kept himself occupied, re-examining in his mind's eye, all of the jumper's systems, trying to see if there was something he missed. And no, on this occasion, he wasn't going to be Sheppard's miracle. It was hypothermia, he was certain. Gradually, he was getting more and more dozy, going down so many routes with his calculations and hitting dead end after dead end in the fog. Or... his brain just wouldn't function, blanking out with the fearful realization he was going to die here alone after all. An hour and each one of Sheppard's juddering breaths sounded like it was going to be his last.

And Rodney shook with cold, his hands numb and fumbling over the valves as he swapped over the oxygen cylinders.

"Rod...ney. Ox... gen... f'you... don't waste... on me..." and Rodney guessed that was Sheppard's forgiveness or saying there was nothing to forgive in the first place.

Sheppard didn't wake anymore after that.

And Rodney finally turned off the light and sat in darkness.

-oAo-

_Jaleen stood near the pool. You will come to no harm, she said. _

_The aurora blossom fell brown to the surface of the water. The perfume, strong and intense wafted in the breeze. First it reminded him of Selemon. And he panicked. Blind and bound and writhing with the need of the moton. Pinned to a cross in the desert and twisting with pain._

_I am in you, she said, and calmed him with words that soothed. You will come to no harm._

_-_

They laid him in the dirt. His wrists still nailed to the wood.

His hands and feet cold and numb and dead to him.

Rodney. Where are you?

Don't worry. Don't worry.

Rodney! Look at my damned hands, Rodney! My hands, Rodney!

Black nails gouging out open flesh. Blue and congealed with thick blood.

He was going mad. Finally, he was going mad.

-

_Jaleen stood near the pool. You will come to no harm, she said. _

_The leaves of the aurora tree threw shadows over the surface of the water and the water turned red as blood. _

_-_

He was in a land of strangers. Toplon, a stranger stood at the door in the far off mist. His voice as a whisper.

He will survive, McKay.

You think so? Said Rodney.

Jaleen gave herself to Joherner weeks ago. Gave up her strength to him. I lost her long before Selemon's men took her. And now I see that she attempts to protect him still, from beyond her death. For he should be dead, McKay. Your friend should be dead, said the stranger, Toplon.

But John couldn't understand the words.

-

_Jaleen stood near the pool. You will come to no harm, she said. _

_She was fading, lost in shadow, though her reflection sparkled clear upon the surface of the water._

_He couldn't touch her. Not ever again. She was in shadow._

_-_

He was in a land of strangers. They sat him up to redress the wounds on his back. Wrapped him in rustling silks. Incense burned that took away his pain. They gave him a stranger's name that was not his own. Joherner. It meant nothing to him. Where was Rodney? Kelsoe? Rosie Murphy? They should be here. Do not concern yourself, they said. And then he remembered Rosie buried beneath a pile of rocks. Selemon and his room. Remembered the cross. And it seemed like John Sheppard was a stranger too. Because... all that just doesn't happen to John Sheppard...

When you return, Joherner, we will have ready the remains of Captain Kelsoe and Rosie. And there will be no more slavery. And he agreed somehow, because he had known that these things should be important to him.

-

_The shadow of Jaleen stood near the pool. You will come to no harm, she said. _

_The leaves of the aurora tree fell brown to the surface of the water and the water churned and boiled until her reflection, shattered and torn, was no more._

_-_

He had been in a land of strangers for so long, even the hum of the jumper felt alien to him. When it stopped, he willed it to start once more. The jumper heard him as a stranger without recognition. Once he'd had control. He couldn't even wish for a miracle now. It's not your fault, Rodney.

-

_The fading shadow of Jaleen stood near the pool. The pool was black and bracken. Stinking mud suffocated reeds that bowed their heads, pulled down by the mess and stagnation at their roots. _

_Others help you now, Joherner, for I am weak._

_-_

He was in a land of strangers. The smells here were familiar but he couldn't place them. Metallic. And the... sea?

Medical. Plastic. Figures floated and spoke to him as in a foreign language. Soft. They moved away from him. He wanted them to come closer. To ask where this place was. He didn't dare think it might be Atlantis. He hadn't the courage to believe in miracles.

A face appeared in his vision. With auburn hair.

-

_The aurora tree stands black and twisted. Strong winds blow dust and sand, shaping out a hollow at its roots. A call is carried on the winds. As an echo forever. Joherner..._

-oAo-


	18. Chapter 18

Madacran

Chapter Eighteen

Woolsey stood in the Control Room, looking down to the Stargate, fingers idly tapping at the rail bar, a tapping that gradually increased in tempo, resembling more of an impatient beating. He glanced at his watch. Ronon was late. As indeed, he had been two minutes and thirty three seconds ago. Woolsey supposed, all things considered, he could be forgiven. Since the return of the Daedalus, schedules and routine of other key personnel had clear gone out of the window. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Nothing should depend on one man.

That was the whole concept of teamwork.

Amendment. Nothing should depend on two men either.

When Colonel Sheppard and Dr McKay had first gone missing in the dead of the night five months ago, the balance between chaos and calm on Atlantis had been quite tenuous. It could have gone either way. There were search parties to organise, and consequently, other duties to be re-scheduled. Fraught emotions had to been assuaged and encouraged to be set to one side. The sense of loss hung everywhere, like some... well, smog... creeping into even the well-oiled machine of Lorne's marines, as clarity of thought and action evaporated, and morale hung limp, stagnant, vapid.

It was down to the expedition's professionalism that it had pulled through as well as it had done.

The euphoria at the two men's reappearance just as suddenly had proved to be nearly as disruptive, even if immediately tempered by the dismay at the decline of Colonel Sheppard's physical health. And Woolsey had to admit it, he was by no means exempt from the universal lack of concentration afflicting Atlantis at the present.

He suddenly stopped the drumming with his hand, as if stung by the rail, frozen by the thought that he had been standing at this exact same spot when they had first received the call from the Daedalus. He flushed, glanced around, quickly ascertaining that no one had noticed that he was so clearly disturbed and then placed his hands in his pockets with a pretence at casual. Rather slovenly, he knew, but there, he was... somewhat embarrassed.

The ship had been sent to investigate an unusual grouping of Wraith ships.

'Appears they were culling,' Caldwell had reported. 'Nothing we couldn't handle. Look, we're taking a detour, the long way home, so keep supper warm, could you? We've been detecting some sort of weak signal and can't make it out. I doubt you could be picking it up, it's quite a distance. Off some planet designated M19 26X. We're sure though it's a craft. But the puzzle is, it's not Wraith. We're going to take a look-see.'

'Send it over,' requested Radek, whose shift it had been, eager to get to the bottom of any anomalies. He had busily begun to type.

'No, true. It is not Wraith,' the scientist had ascertained. 'Unless they have made drastic changes to their coding.'

'And you don't know what it is?' inquired Caldwell.

'Oh, to the contrary. Yes I do. And I suggest that you get to the location with all due speed... that's... um... respectfully suggest..." amended Radek, all too conscious that it hadn't been his place to give orders to a colonel of a space vessel. 'It's a power out signal. Please help. From the auxiliary systems of a jumper.'

'But we don't have any jumpers out at the present, except...' Woolsey had trailed off.

'Yes, sir. Exactly. There is only one conclusion to draw. It must be Jumper One.'

It had been nothing short of a miracle. Just like that. After months of fruitless searching. And the Daedalus brought home Colonel Sheppard and Dr McKay.

Then further searches had to be instigated. To find the whereabouts of Specialist Ronon Dex.

It had been particularly difficult in those early days, Woolsey recalled, and he wound a finger uneasily round his collar at those uncomfortable memories. His mind, pragmatic as usual could recount every last detail.

First, there had been a mysterious activation of the gate at midnight and Woolsey been pulled from his bed. The Control Room team could come up with no feasible explanation. It had been accepted that it was just one of those things. Back to bed. And, he remembered this due to its rarity, he had then overslept. Major Lorne was hailing him over his radio. Three personnel members had not reported for duty that morning, Colonel Sheppard, Dr McKay, Dominic Kelsoe, and were all unaccounted for. A certain Rosie Murphy booked for gate travel back to Earth for medical care, at 9.15 Atlantis time, was also absent from the infirmary. Additionally, Jumper One was missing from the jumper bay. It was all too coincidental. The only possible assumption that could be drawn was that Jumper One had passed, cloaked, out of the gate with all four expedition members on board. As had supplies and rations, sufficient for two to three weeks. Communications systems had been cut off. So what were Colonel Sheppard and Dr McKay playing at? There had been no way of tracking them. Too much time had passed and too many gates had been opened in quick succession to effectively discover their whereabouts.

'It would take months,' Radek had said, shaking his head. And Woolsey was unable to determine whether the Colonel had gone AWOL voluntarily or whether coercion had been involved.

'It would be most out of character,' Teyla had said, referring to the first alternative.

And Ronon had growled his agreement. 'Does it make any difference?' the Satedan had asked.

'Yes, actually it does, because coercion goes up the list of how seriously we prioritize this.' Woolsey couldn't jeopardise teams' lives to search for someone who had ostensibly left of their own free will, and might eventually return. Of their own free will.

'A lot of trouble had been taken to cover tracks,' Major Lorne had pointed out, but that was insufficient evidence to go on. This had driven the angry Ronon to demand that Radek examine all surveillance camera footage. However insignificant. And there it was. In one corridor. The glimpse of a gun at the colonel's midriff.

'That coercion enough for you?' snarled Ronon. Yes. Snarled. There was no other way to describe it. And Woolsey wound another finger round his collar.

Major Lorne was given permission to organize on the ground search parties, asking questions on friendly planets for any clues as to the whereabouts of the four. Their options had been few and all they had endeavoured had borne little success.

Woolsey had protocols to follow. Expenditure of time, effort and money to consider. After weeks of coming up with nothing, Woolsey had to make the regrettable announcement.

'I've just received a notification from SGC. It's official. MIA.'

'What happens now?' had been Ronon's question.

'Nothing.'

'Nothing? You can't mean that!' he had retorted.

'Unfortunately... I can.' Ronon had fumed off, but Teyla had caught up with him outside and Woolsey had overheard every word. It had not made for easy listening. Woolsey had never known the man to be quite so vocal. Teyla, as always, had been the voice of reason.

'I cannot stay here and do nothing! If I left, carried on the search, at least I'd be trying to do something!'

'This is going to take you a lifetime, Ronon. It will consume you. You are prepared to sacrifice your life this way? John would not want it.'

'Sheppard always said that we leave no man behind!'

'Ronon! Listen to me! He may... be dead.'

'No! I refuse to believe it! If he lives, he is trying to get back to us and needs our help! If he is dead, then he is dead because we have failed him! This I know.'

'It will be like, as the Earth people say, looking for a needle in a haystack. It will be like trying to listen for the wailing of a crios bird when you know that the crios bird is forever silent. I have no wish to lose you too, Ronon. Please accept that John and Rodney are now in the hands of a greater authority and are no longer our responsibility. Stay. Please, stay.'

Woolsey had been moved by the entreaty but Ronon had left, becoming a one man quest, travelling Pegasus, looking for his friends, rarely keeping in contact with Atlantis, despite a promise to Teyla.

"Sir? Colonel Lorne's code," and Chuck's voice made him lift his head from his thoughts.

"Yes, of course." It was always going to take some getting used to that Lorne had been promoted to fill Colonel Sheppard's place. "Open the gate."

The familiar blue whooshing. Colonel Lorne and a couple of marines. And Ronon. None the worse for his four months of living rough.

Woolsey met him at the bottom of the stairs, offering his hand. It was refused. And Woolsey believed that the rebuff wasn't entirely due to lack of manners. The Satedan's look was as black as ever. Woolsey stretched out his neck. Well, this was hardly fair. Whatever happened to Colonel Sheppard and Dr. McKay really wasn't his fault. Woolsey, however, didn't rise to the bait.

"Ronon. You are well? Colonel Lorne has filled you in?" he asked briskly. He was determined to be friendly, even if Ronon wasn't. They moved off together towards the infirmary.

"That Sheppard was crucified and raped?" As well as still being in good health, Ronon was apparently as blunt as ever too. Woolsey reddened. This wasn't the place to be having this kind of conversation.

"I wouldn't put it that strongly. More... er..." And Woolsey stopped.

"Abused?" Ronon asked, turning on him.

"Er... yes," concurred Woolsey, relieved and grateful for the word supplied.

"He was raped. In my books, rape and abuse are the same thing. However much you want to dress it up, he was raped." And Ronon looked at him significantly and walked off.

-oAo-

A screaming voice in his head.

But no sound left his mouth. His mind told him to struggle but his body just wouldn't move. He'd accepted this. Madacran guards held him naked down onto the desert floor, pinning each of his arms outstretched, like... like he was hanging on a cross... and he knew what that felt like from another nightmare. They breathed hot breath into his face and told him he would enjoy it. He writhed and arced against their grip, the sand scalding and ripping his back. And then paralysis made him still again and there was nothing he could do except watch in horror, watch the leer of the guard that had drawn his sword, slashing down...

No! And he was sitting bolt upright. A cold sweat. Head and heart pounding. Lungs working like he'd been running...

"John! John! You must keep still!"

Jenny. The infirmary whirled. Jenny. Damn! He'd ruined another session. Her hands eased him back into the pillows. "John, please! Keep calm!"

"Ok! Ok. I know. I know." The words coming out all fuzzy and blurred. She'd given him a double dose of sedative today, but nothing was ever going to work if every damn time he slept, the bad dreams came crowding in and he moved.

Pain that corkscrewed along his limbs from his wrists and ankles told him otherwise. It was all working just fine.

"Shit! Sorry," he hissed.

"Hurts, huh?"

"Hmm..." came out as a suppressed sob, held tight between his lips. This was like getting crucified all over. He fought the urge to curl to his side, knowing that he risked undoing everything if he did. He held his breath, squeezed his eyes tight till the tears came and hoped to will it away.

"I did warn you. You can call me perverse and sadistic, but this really is excellent stuff," said Jenny and he could imagine her with a smile on her face directed at her human guinea pig, though he daren't open his eyes to look, only gradually easing out slow breaths.

He flinched when she reached for the pulse at his neck. He was never going to get used to that, being touched suddenly, and knew that Jenny knew that too.

"Think you can get back to sleep?"

"Doubt it," he gritted out.

"Me too. We'll call it a wrap then." She patted him on the shoulder and he jerked away. "No gain, without pain," she said rather too blithely for his liking and he heard the humming of Rodney's miracle stop abruptly as she flicked the off switch.

She began to unfasten the straps at his wrists that attached him to the machine. And he opened his eyes to watch her but closed them again immediately. The pain had receded to a dull throb now, but his vision had blurred again. Perhaps he could get to sleep after all. He felt her re-bandage the wounds there, careful to re-position the splints and he fidgeted, hating the way the bones felt, sort of lumpy and grating, with nothing beyond...

"You can feel this?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely.

"What about this?" he thought she'd touched his little finger. He frowned because he couldn't be sure.

"No. Not really."

"You know, though, you're doing far better than I ever expected. I really didn't think this gadget of Rodney's would perform quite like this. Pity about the side-effects."

"Yeah. Pity." Something found in Janus' lab. Straps that they fixed to his ankles and wrists, that fed through some sort of electrical impulse from a white rectangular thing, that looked like a vintage mini fridge, that sped up recovery, repairing the nerves. And as fast as the nerves regenerated, the more sensation returned... and the more his pain receptors kicked in. Apparently.

'I guess that's why the Ancients had forgotten it and Janus had dumped it in his lab,' Rodney had said.

"I'm going to get the feeling back?" His prognosis had never been good. He'd been told it had been touch and go. Six hours of surgery on the Daedalus. And the Daedalus had been parked up on the south pier a couple of those before the doctors had finished with him. It was a miracle he hadn't died. A miracle he hadn't faced an amputation. The scanner had revealed an average of eighty five per cent nerve damage. With sensory perception so low, and consequent depreciated mobility skills, he was looking at a wheelchair. Crutches at best. How permanent that was depended on time... time for the military to put one great question mark over his future career, and his status on Atlantis.

"I hope so," said Jenny, winding up an electric cord. "This is all experimental though. We have no way of telling for sure." He'd volunteered for this. Perhaps he was going mad after all. There was little in the way of instructions, except that it should be used as a part of the natural healing process. And he'd got to do this cold. No painkillers allowed. They'd confuse all the little neurons. At least, that's what he thought they'd said. At first, he was ok with that. But as the numbness receded, the pain of his injuries went up a notch or two. And it'd been agony. So they were now trying sedatives. "But things are certainly looking good." She gave him another encouraging pat on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. You'll pull through this. You know you will, and you know what they say about you?"

"What do they say?" and his voice hardened. Fearful there was going to be some mention of that room. Or the cross. Irrational, he knew. A double harpoon all the same.

"No, I didn't mean that," said Jenny hastily, blushing. "They say that no one comes through tight situations quite like you. No. You'll be fine." And she turned away, grateful to be busy, finishing packing up the gear.

"Sorry..." he hoarsed out, lying back, closing his eyes. The sedatives were hanging in there still and what with the aches and pains, he felt drained. _Now_, he could sleep.

"I understand. Sometimes it gets to you, huh?" And he opened an eye, taking in her earnest face levelly studying him, and nodded.

He shut his eyes again and listened to her moving about the bed and then she left.

Fine was one thing that he didn't feel. Getting over the physical things he could cope with. They were goals he could achieve. One day, he was just gonna get to that bathroom unaided. It was that other. Apart from the 'mini-fridge' therapy, he was having everyday sessions with Pat that left him unburdening more of his... soul than he would rather. He knew he had to have them. SGC would never re-instate him otherwise. He thought he could wing it, make no mention of Selemon's room. Hell, it was bad enough having been strung up on a cross. Bad enough not bringing Rosie and Kelsoe back home. He'd made Rodney swear to secrecy. It'd never occurred to him that blood tests would show faint traces of the cer moton. That for days Jenny couldn't figure out and when she did, Woolsey had some pretty awkward questions to ask. That Rodney blurted out answers to. Pat Cornwell fended off the flak but it had meant that their little talks became a whole different ball game...

'I know this is difficult, John. But you're going to have to tell me exactly what happened.'

'Rodney's told you already.'

'I need your version. How you feel...'

'I dunno.'

'You don't know how you feel or you don't want to tell me?' She was raising an eyebrow at him.

'I'm tired. This can wait.'

'No, it can't. It's bothering you, eating you, but you won't see it.'

'I can handle it.'

'Sure you can. That's why you're trying your damn hardest to keep this under wraps.'

He'd scrubbed a hand over his face. If he weren't confined to bed, he'd be pacing the room. Or leaving it. But she had been as stubborn as he was.

'You should unburden yourself. No one's accusing you of anything... of weakness, of depravity, if that's what you're thinking.'

'Any of those options. It'll go on my record. It's how it'll be read.'

'By bigots and fools.' Those who wanted a laugh, a cheap thrill at his expense. And neither did he want pity and sympathy. He'd rather they laughed. 'If you show how you intend to progress from here, then it's strength, not weakness.'

There was no getting out of this.

'I was... right. I don't know... how I felt... I was so far out of it.'

'The drugs were controlling you, yes. But you still _felt_, and I shouldn't be putting words into your mouth, that it was _you _that needed it, asked for it?'

He hadn't replied immediately. Yeah, needed it. Wanted it. His whole world had been this need and nothing else had mattered. Except hating Selemon. Except remembering why he was putting himself through all that... the people of Madacran, then... he hadn't lost it... he hadn't lost control...

'Yeah... I needed it,' he'd conceded.

'Why was this so difficult to say? By denial, John, you are turning your back on an essential part of the human condition, physical need is such an intrinsic part of you. You'll do yourself a helluva lot of harm with that sort of detachment. The events in Selemon's room really did happen to you. Not to someone else. I know that the trauma involved makes us feel that way. That we've been supplanted by someone else. It's often a trigger response to lessen the pain... And denial... sometimes we deny, because we're projecting an image of ourselves. You feel that yours is being impaired in some way? No one was ever going to think anything less of you. The drugs made you need it. You needed it. But it was still abuse. If it was against your will, if you ever wanted to say no, if it alters your perception of yourself, if it induces such a deep sense of shame you end up hating yourself for allowing it to happen, for losing control, hating the other guy for taking that control away from you... it's abuse. And in the end, you didn't give in-'

"Sheppard."

He flicked his eyes open at the voice. And for a moment, his mind didn't register... he'd been thinking about Pat... and now, standing there at the foot of the bed, with Rodney and Teyla, grinning behind him...

"Ronon. Hey..." and Sheppard felt a smile break over his face, like it would, well, break, it'd been so long. And Ronon came to his side, beaming, and they sort of high-fived as much as Sheppard's bandaged hand and his position in the bed would allow.

"Sheppard," Ronon said again, like he thought he was seeing things.

"Hey, buddy..." and tears started and he was nearly overcome when Ronon leaned in and gave him a short strong hug. "They didn't say you were coming," he waffled into the guy's coat.

"We wanted it to be a surprise," confirmed Teyla, peering round Ronon.

"We finally tracked him down two days ago. M19 R26," said Rodney, smugly, rocking on his feet, hands deep in his pockets. Yeah. Happy now they were finally all united.

"Hey, Sheppard," and Ronon pushed at Sheppard's shoulder making him wince, "don't you and Rodney ever go missing again, you hear?"

"Don't plan ever doing a repeat of that, no."

"Amen," said Rodney.

-oAo-

Pat Cornwell was Heightmeyer's replacement. And had settled in well at Atlantis. Making friends with just about anyone, not least, John Sheppard, but then, he was easy enough to get along with anyway. His credit. Not hers, she was sure.

'What's your secret?' Sam Carter had asked her once. Confidentially. Because Sam had secretly always considered she never had. Settled in. Been accepted. Found her place. Except by the Czech, Radek who idolised her.

Pat couldn't say. And if she ever could fathom out the answer, it'd probably sound like criticism of her profession, and certainly of her predecessor.

She hated barriers. She'd dropped the title of doctor and encouraged everyone to call her by her first name. She made a point of knowing everyone else's. And her office, well, they might as well give it over for a broom cupboard for all she cared. It certainly must have its share of cobwebs by now. And that ubiquitous potted palm must have long given up the ghost.

She met her 'clients' anywhere of their choosing. Their quarters. Her quarters. Where ever. When, provided they weren't on medication, they could name their poison. There was no appointment system as such. If two happened to turn up at once, then you just had to ask nice. Someone was always prepared to come back later. Atlantis was such a small community, it seemed pointless to do any different.

She was involved in every club going, not simply out of a need to get to know everyone and to make friends. Life was too interesting and she just wanted to be a part of it, to live the experience, but it turned out that she made friends with everyone that way anyhow.

'What's your secret?' Richard Woolsey had asked her once. Déjà vu. But he'd been more after the answer to another question. 'How do you get Colonel Sheppard to talk to you? I mean, you're a psychiatrist.'

She hated client records, but she had to have them and she had to fill them out though it felt like confidences were betrayed knowing that there were those at SGC who'd actually read them. She kept them short and factual but she was still taken aback by the brevity of John's file that she'd inherited. Scrolling down through the data, she'd even began to wonder if massive chunks weren't missing or had even been erased. She'd checked dates. Appointments cancelled or postponed. Excuse after excuse. Memo after memo sent via email.

'You slippery bastard,' she'd whispered to herself. Even pre-Atlantis, there had been very little. Enough to keep the review boards happy and nothing more. So she'd issued herself with an instant mental challenge, which melted on their first meeting. This guy could have made con man with that easy smile. But it came with a contradiction, with a reticence built like Fort Knox. No wonder there was so little on record.

And in spite of himself, he opened up to her. And they became friends. Though Pat was a good fifteen years his senior, and yeah... a lot more wrinkled too. Probably, aside from Woolsey, the analyst was the oldest member of the expedition.

'Hey, why am I even talking to you? You're a shrink,' he'd tease.

She guessed he respected her. She liked to take care of herself. Exercise and a careful diet. Yoga and meditation and herbal teas with Teyla. He and Pat would meet on the jogging trails. He knew what she'd given up to come to Atlantis. A love of ballet. Not that they had that in common. His face was indescribable when she first confessed her passion. Nothing short of revulsion but she hadn't held it against him. She'd simply burst out laughing. He saw things in terms of sacrifice. And she guessed she'd describe herself as kinda gutsy. Once she'd helped out to extinguish a fire in one of the lower corridors and had pulled a couple of techs free of the smoke. She didn't like to brag though.

Sometimes she felt like she reminded him of someone... she'd catch him looking at her in a certain way and then he'd quickly look away... oh God... so not Freudian here?... his mother?... no... no... Elizabeth Weir...

They both formed a part of the daring few. The two of them, a handful of marines and a biologist who'd been an Olympic medallist. Those with courage enough or even physically able enough to brave the cold waters of the sea around Atlantis in order to swim. Even Ronon Dex was only ever an infrequent visitor.

A sort of unofficial club. 'Stick to Mensa! You won't freeze your-sorry...' apologized Rodney, trailing off flustered, because they'd been ladies present. The swimming was never competitive. It was simply encouragement and it was always safer to swim in pairs or groups anyway.

Today, John had gotten there early and had obviously been swimming for some time. He always finished with a leisurely crawl, at which point, he already would have completed twenty lengths along the south pier. She frowned at the blatant disregard for his own well being, but then, it was nothing new. She threw down her towel, removed her robe and dropped that too beside John's untidy heap of sweats.

She began a few limbering up exercises while he came up alongside and began to haul himself up the steps the engineers had fabricated there four years ago.

"Cold?" She yelled down to him, but she could see that. His whole torso, shoulders and arms had turned a bright crimson. He still hadn't put on that lost weight after Madacran and was leaner than ever. God, but she so could have a crush on him.

He looked up and grinned crazily through black sodden locks of hair that clamped to his forehead. "Yep!" And then continued to climb. Slowly. One rung at a time. And she knew this was the hardest part for him. She could sense him inwardly wincing with every step on that left foot. Though he was never going to allow her to see that.

"You know Woolsey will revoke our license to swim if he ever gets wind you're going it alone?"

"Yep!" And he paused again, grinning up at her again. "But I'm not telling... are you?" And he continued his climb.

She remembered his first swim after his horrific injuries like it was only yesterday.

Keller had had her reservations... the cold... the possibility of infection, but had been forced to concede that it was the best physical therapy for him when it'd be weeks before he'd be able to bear any weight on his damaged feet. One heel was being a devil to heal and had already developed sepsis once. He couldn't manage a wheel chair himself because of his wrists. He was effectively bed ridden or utterly dependent on others. And it was getting him down. Pat had played her shrink part and pushed that fact home.

'Give the man his freedom, not antidepressants.' Though she knew he'd never take them. Keller relented and found waterproof dressings. They chose a calm day with plenty of sunshine warming that top foot or so of water. And Rodney had taken out a jumper level to the water's surface.

'It'd be a whole lot easier to just build a pool!' he'd exaggerated, but it'd been him who'd offered to do it. And this way, Ronon and Frankie, Corporal Mellors helped ease him painfully out to the sea through the hatch. And it had hit her how pale and thin he'd become. The three of them swum with him, a slow breaststroke, as Rodney watched anxiously from the safety of the jumper. A half dozen yards out and John was already exhausted. Pat, who could see he was tiring very quickly, swum in close to take hold of him.

He was nearly sobbing with the frustration. 'Damn! Damn!'

She soon had her arms around him. 'It's ok... it's ok... just tread water... get your breath...'

'Damnit, Pat, I can't even do this!"

And Ronon was there and guided him over to his back. 'Just relax, buddy.'

'You can't expect to do more,' she'd panted with her own effort. 'The after effect of drugs... the cold... being out of action so long... we'll take this nice and easy... you've done well.'

And the two of them held John till he'd calmed down enough to float on the surface unaided.

'Good huh?' she'd asked eventually. And he'd nodded with no smile but had closed his eyes enjoying the warmth of the sun. And the pure crystal waters of the Lantean sea were healing in more ways than one. Pat had once doubted he'd ever enjoy the feel of his own body ever again but with continued spells in the sea, the swims became longer, the wounds became scars, and the scars, memories...

He pulled up onto the deck with one last heave on strong muscular arms and stood dripping as she picked his towel and passed it over.

"So," watching him towel down, shivering as he did so, "how far out _did_ you swim?"

He was drying his hair and for a brief second seemed startled by her accusation, but peered from underneath the towel with one of his grins. She'd read him like a book. He'd gone out to sea, way beyond the permitted limits.

"A couple of miles," he confessed.

Two miles out. Two miles back again.

"And which lifeguard do you see will come and rescue you if you'd gotten into difficulties? Which jumper do you see will come and pick you up in the event of a Wraith attack, hmm?"

"You sound like Rodney," he said, casually slinging the towel around his shoulders, and picking up the bottled water stashed among his clothes.

Well, that ought to shut her up.

"Want to tell me why?"

"Now you sound like a shrink." And he threw back his head to take several swigs of drink, eyeing her up with a smirk in his eyes. Well, that ought to shut her up too.

"You still not sleeping? You'd woken up early and this felt like a good idea at the time?"

"Something like that," he agreed seriously, drinking again, gazing at some point far on the horizon...

"Wasn't your version of a cold shower then?"

He nearly choked. "Excuse me?" wiping his mouth.

"You heard."

"This is the part where you're going to make me... _'talk'_, aren't you?" He was very nearly pouting, scrunching up his face.

"Don't you think you should?"

"I thought you were my friend."

"Yeah, well, friends _talk_ too you know."

"But you talk _at_ me."

"That's because you don't _talk_ back... _talks_ are two way things, you know?

"Here? Now? I'm cold and hungry." And his swim shorts were still dripping everywhere. No, it probably wasn't a good time.

"Who sounds like Rodney now?" Pat stooped down and flung him his sweatshirt and then picked up her robe again. Her own swim would have to wait. They were both quickly dressed and she laid her towel out at the edge of the pier, sat and pointed down to the empty space beside her. "Sit!" He checked out the door and seemed to make a mental ok before following her over, limping, and stiffly lowered himself down,

"Why did you have to my shrink?"

"Hey, it's a rotten job! But someone has to do it!"

He held his bottle in two hands on his knees and Pat caught a glimpse of the white scars at his wrists as he fidgeted with the bottle and then took another swig. She inwardly shivered at a mental picture those scars always brought up for her. One that she hated herself for seeing. John... on the cross... as described by Rodney during his sessions... and she pushed it away...

"The nightmares have started again?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"You tell me, you're the doc..." And he finished off the water.

"There must have been a trigger?"

He paused awhile before answering. "Don't think they ever really went away somehow, Pat." And he frowned studying the sea, toying with the empty bottle.

"But this morning's must have been bad, huh? So you went for a swim... to drive the demons away?" Then, he must have been out here at first light... thinking...

"Maybe..." he said, his hands still now as he gazed down to the bottle.

"What was it this time?"

He glanced at her, and then he looked out to sea once more, saying nothing.

"The usual?"

Eyes distant again. "Usual... yeah..." As if the nightmares could ever be... usual... The death of Rosie... the vultures feeding on her decomposing hand and John helpless to prevent it as he watched, bound to the ground... the hand dismembered and taking him by the throat... the hand dismembered and driving in the nails... because he deserved it... Kelsoe accusing him... piercing his body over and over while he hung on the cross... helpless as Kelsoe took his own life... the cross... the nails... the pain... over and over... the cross... the nails... the drugs that made him enjoy it... the drugs... writhing to escape the drugs... but enjoying it... hating it... shame, humiliation... hating the helplessness... enjoying it... hating himself... Selemon jeering and taunting... his helplessness... taking the short sword of Kelsoe and driving it into his own chest...

Somehow he'd opened up to her and his confused nightmares became stark images in her own head.

"Something must have happened... we've discussed this-"

"Yeah, I know. You said. None of this was my fault." And he sing-songed the phrase he'd learnt by rote now, emphasizing every word with a sideways nod of the head.

"No. The machine was not your problem. It was Selemon's. Give that responsibility back to him. None of this you could _control. _It was all out of your hands. You're not-"

"What? God?" he asked bitterly, looking back at her again. And she knew the cross and the Christ connection had bothered him, though he hadn't any confessed faith. There was no one in Western society who couldn't possibly be aware of or be affected by the link. She'd seen other expedition members stare at him like they half expected the appearance of stigmata or something. She'd asked him how he'd felt by all that. 'It hurt,' he'd joked lightly. But sessions had suggested he'd felt unworthy... and unworthy too, of the trust the Madacran people had placed in him, in effect, setting him up as a god.

"No. You're only human."

He nodded. Which was polite of him really, because she'd more or less said that so many times before too.

John shifted and put the bottle to one side, and drew up his right leg, hugging it, resting his chin on his knee. He stared mournfully down at the water. Comfort? Or hell! The guy was still shivering with cold and wouldn't admit it.

"The swimming doesn't appear to be working. You're using it as a punishment, to thrash yourself to exhaustion." And she half-laughed, "or to die of hypothermia. That was never the aim."

The purpose of the swimming was dual fold, not only to get him back into condition but to give him that sense of control again. Not only over the course of events but over his own body too. And she could see it as a sort of cleansing... baptism... how do you feel, John?... tainted.... dirty... all the responses of a rape victim.

"So what am I to do exactly?" He asked gloomily.

"Have sex with me."

His face ran a whole gamut of emotions in one second flat... surprise, alarm, flushing with embarrassment, and then he chuckled and his face broke into a welcome smile. He straightened, stretching his shoulders back... a charade to cover up his discomfort at what just had to be a taboo subject.

"That would be a mite unethical, wouldn't it?" He asked ponderously slowly. "Or did the IOA have a relapse and sign you up for sex therapy too?"

"I might have read a manual. Once."

"So what is this? The 'facing up to your fears' thing?" And he then made the inverted commas sign.

She looked at him hard. "You were sexually abused, John." They'd had sessions and sessions trying to iron this one out. "There are no two ways about that. And I know you haven't been seeing anyone since. Learn again that your body is your own. You are in control. No one else. This is for your pleasure only. Not for Selemon's. Not anyone's. Yours alone. Take control. You're not helpless any more. And besides, it's fun, as well as therapeutic. It'll get rid of tension. Best thing an analyst, no, a friend can suggest. Have some fun again. You do deserve it. Tell yourself, you do deserve it. You don't have to punish yourself forever, you know."

He scrubbed a hand over stubble, giving her a furtive questioning glance that she couldn't fathom. Of course, he wouldn't take up the invitation. He was too much of a gentleman and had set her up alongside the statue of Weir, untouchable... But she hoped he got the general idea. The offer was still open, however.

"It doesn't have to be with me," Pat continued, "but that first time isn't going to be easy. You're gonna need a lot of understanding. It'll be no different than the first time you took to the sea again... so, yeah... facing up to your fears..."

"Well," and he coughed, and shifted in his place on the towel, and coughed again, "that's just about the weirdest chat-up line I've had for some time." And then he fell silent, so she just chatted some more.

"You need to get back on duty. We'll persuade Woolsey to find you something. Get you into control mode again."

But he wasn't being drawn out and looked to the sea, thoughtful. The sound of waves lapping and gurgling against the pier far below them. A solitary seabird screamed once overhead.

He fidgeted, getting thoughts straight in his head before he spoke, sitting once on his hands, trying still to get some warmth in his body. His hair drying now, flicking up in the breeze.

"You asked me once what I'd learnt from all this?"

'Hey, who sounds like a shrink, now?' She thought. A joint session with Rodney came to mind. Called because the scientist was so riddled with guilt too. He should have done more to help John... more sooner... preventive to stop those things ever happening to John in the first place. And Rodney, feeling so miserable over the whole affair, couldn't bring himself to talk to John. And that wasn't helping John with his sense of isolation.... _dirty_... _tainted_... _untouchable..._ _shame, humiliation, they know_... The two had needed to be re-introduced to one another, as it were. When she'd asked that question, the pair of them fell about laughing. Rodney especially shrieked, 'oh that is so clichéd!' saying that she sounded like one of those TV shows, the epilogue, when everyone stands round moralizing. Well, if John wanted to moralize now... let him... she wasn't about to say anything... fire away...

"I did?" She replied. He threw her a look. Somehow she hadn't managed to keep the mockery out of her voice.

"Well, I've learned that's the one thing you can't do... control... it's the one thing _I _can't do... you... you can't play at.... God. Force. Persuasion. It isn't going to happen... Stuff just goes the way it wants to go..."

"Being fatalistic, aren't we, John?" She was losing him... his body language... this was one disillusioned son of a bitch...

But she pressed on. "Surely we have the ability to lessen the impact? Surely you influenced the events on Madacran for the better, even if you could never bring back Kelsoe or Rosie in one piece?"

"Too... too many people died... while I... I pushed... for what? Principles? My way of doing things?"

"Ok, it didn't quite go the way you intended but you helped save those people from slavery? C'mon, John, that has to count for something? And the military? Being in the military, how do you accommodate that in your viewpoint? Surely the military is all about force, control... to try and change things... to even simply maintain a status quo? Hey! _Someone_ has to protect the good guys against the bad guys!" And he fell silent... "My God, John! You're not having second thoughts about staying in the military?" This was the demon he'd been trying to drown in the Lantean sea...

He shrugged, and then, because this discussion was over as far as he was concerned, he pulled up his legs ready to stand, pausing to look at her, to speak to her with that hoarse voice of his. "And I told you, I'm not God."

Where had that come from? She'd said, my god John...

Pat grabbed his hand. And he looked down in alarm, because, no, he'd allowed very little human contact since Madacran. She'd seen that. Her job to watch him, after all. But sometimes, she had to let the analyst slide and let the friend in, honest and brutal.

"Then stop aspiring to be. I told you at the top of this conversation, you're only human. And humans have failings. They can only do as little as they can. Often, it might just be enough. Don't walk away. Yeah, face up to your fears. Face up to what you consider to be your failings, but get back, John, get back in control of who you really are. Human."

He nodded once. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

"I didn't say it was ever going to be easy," she added.

"Too damn right," he said, and stood then, that lone seabird catching his eye suddenly, skimming over the surface of the water at speed, touching the crest of waves, setting off wisps of white spray with its wings. He'd appreciate its freedom, she knew. Would nearly see it as a sign. Time to move forward. Time to stop doubting. Time to leave all the madness behind. Time to drop the chains.

End


End file.
